


A Piece of Heaven

by Yamxz (TightTights)



Series: Duality [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AU, AU about Shimada dragons and Jesse's eye, Alternate Universe, Angst, Bigotry & Prejudice, Complete, Gency, Hanamura is an advanced nation/planet, Hanzo Angst, Long, M/M, Magic, McHanzo - Freeform, Omnic Racism, Overwatch is a news organization, Slow Burn, Spiritual Journeys, Talon - Freeform, alternate explanation of Shimada brother's powers, background in other words, but mild Gency, dragon lore, only because it works for this story, shifts btwn past and present
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-11-11 15:37:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 60,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11151420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TightTights/pseuds/Yamxz
Summary: Everything changed when Jesse McCree - and the people of Earth - discovered they were not alone in the universe.Not everyone on Earth accepted the rule of Hanamura readily, and former rebels like Jesse McCree paid for it.But now, with a new arm and a strange piece of Hanamurian tech in his head, he is summoned to Hanamura as a humble reporter on behalf of Overwatch.  His mission derails when he crosses paths with the First Son of the Dragon Lord...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi ya'll. I'm some rando who just so happened to trip and fall down screaming into McHanzo hell. 
> 
> Inspired by the anniversary event, I started playing around with some ideas, spent ~2 weeks in a creative writing fugue state, and woke up with something I think might be entertaining enough to offer up to the McHanzo world! It's an AU nobody asked for, and it might be the suckiest fic of suck that ever sucked, but so be it! Hope it intrigues and delights...  
>  
> 
> _Italics denote past or otherwise non-present events/conversations. Let me know if the way I have chosen to format is unbearably confusing_

It’ll be the furthest McCree had ever been from home. Hell, it was the first time he’d even been to outer space, let alone another planet.  
  
Before this assignment, he never dreamed of setting foot on Hanamura-- except as a prisoner. Or an invader, in some alternate reality. Instead, circumstances would have him go as a humble reporter. He chuckles to himself, and welcomes the shiver of anticipation.  
  
Compulsively, reaches under his serape for the palm-sized tablet in his back pocket, reassuring himself that he remembered it. _Check._ Next, his hand travels to his belt, where he assures the presence of his equalizer, his six-eyed Susan he trusted with his life: Peacekeeper. _Check._ To keep her company, a few flashbangs. _Check._ He pats his other back pocket for his billfold. _Check, check, check,_ and _check._  
  
The glitter of his gold belt buckle dulls as the harsh white lights blink out in sections across the freighter hold, and guide lights along the flooring flicker on. His boss, Reyes, always threatened to fill him with buckshot for the audacity of its engraving: BAMF. If not for that, then for the jingle of spurs at his heels. What can he say? He likes to make a strong impression, one way or the other.  
  
The transport shudders around him as the engines fire up. No turning back.  
  
He stretches his legs out, relaxing as much as one could into the cold metal floor of the cargo hold. Reyes neglected to mention he’d make the trip as part of the delivery of goods. He tries not to read into that decision.  
  
Pushing up the brim of his hat, he glances up at one of the stacks of boxed cargo, his imagination running wild with what they must contain. He stands, checking for any witnesses who might toss him right off the rig - whether in motion or not - He finds himself alone in the darkened cargo hold. Gingerly, he moves aside one of the heavy, braided straps holding down one of the boxes, just enough to wedge a finger under a fold in the thick piece of cardboard holding the boxes flush together. He worries his finger in further, prying apart the glued seams with care. After a minute, the flap gives, and it pops open.  
  
His right eye whirs as it adjusts to the low light. “Jackpot,” he mutters.  
  
The box might as well have been full of platinum by the way his eyes sparkled at his read of the label: _LUCKY SEVEN, HECHO EN DORADO, MEXICO._ Cigarillos.  
  
He pulls out his tablet. Dictating to it, he says, “Note: Earth merchants are looking to make a killing.” He snaps a picture with the tablet, then puts it back in his breast pocket. “In more ways than one.”  
  
He looks down at his left hand and forearm, flexing the gunmetal prosthesis there. With it, he easily tears at the cardboard until he extracts a tin of cigarillos and pockets it. His conscience bites him, and he replaces his pilfered item with a few Hanamurian notes. More than enough to cover the loss.  
  
He checks the other pallet of goods in a similar fashion, his curiosity blooming. The corner of his lips curl when he identifies another familiar shade of brown: the dark amber of aged whiskey.  
  
Speaking to the tablet, “Smokes and booze. No surprise that vices are among the vanguard of our fledgling trade relationship.” He snaps a few more photos to boot.  
  
He sits down again when the transport rumbles into motion. He tried not to let his anticipation burn out his nerves before he even got there-- to the planet of Hanamura, of the eponymous Hanamura system. The system and the planet itself was still a no-man’s land, at least from Earth citizen’s perspective. Merchants did little more than drop off and take away commodities, and while tourism was not prohibited, the daunting distance and fear of the unknown kept the two cultures from mixing in any appreciable way.  
  
To McCree, the status quo seems rather droll and underwhelming considering the explosive beginnings between the two cultures.  
  
He settles between a tight gap between stacks of strapped up boxes. Far more economical to buy one’s way on a freighter, and worth having to endure cold storage temperatures and hard places to sit. Not to mention discreet. He’s traveled in much worse conditions and for greater lengths of time.  
  
He tips the brim of his hat down and closes his eyes, letting the tremors and noise of takeoff rock him to a light sleep.

* * *

  
  
_You’ll catch flies, cowboy._  
  
_Then explain to me what the hell I’m lookin’ at, boss._  
  
_You’re looking at travel arrangements to Hanamura._  
  
_There something I’m missin’ here? They don’t know that Blackwatch exists, do they?_  
  
_They shouldn’t. You know I run a tight ship, but I was contacted personally. Do not tell Jack about this._  
  
_Who is it?_  
  
_Preferred to remain anonymous, and ready to walk if you couldn’t muster the cojones to take up what they’re offering._  
  
_Me?_  
  
_They requested you. By name._  
  
_How’s that? I ain’t never set foot up there. Unless they’ve got shapeshifters down here, boss, I don’t know any Hanamurians, I swear._  
  
_Relax. I believe you. My contact in Dorado is looking into it. In the meantime, I arranged you to be on a merchant freighter out of Li Jiang._  
  
_Excuse me? You want me to accept?_  
  
_You’re damn right I do. This? This right here? Manna from heaven._  
  
_Hold up now. It ain’t like you to up and trust someone without even a name, especially if they’re Hanamurian. You’re sure they’re legit?_  
  
_They deposited half a million Hanamurian reasons to suspend my considerable disbelief._  
  
_Holy...whew, money sure do swear._  
  
_The other half is on the way if you don’t fuck this up right out the gate._  
  
_Maybe they just want a good write-up in the arts and lifestyle section?_  
  
_Be serious about this one, smart mouth, if you can manage it. This could not only make your career, but prove that Blackwatch is what Earth needs, not the song and dance of a bunch of boy scout bootlickers. If Jack gets even a whiff of this, or the advance-- so help me god._  
  
_Yeah, I get it. Still sounds a little too good to be true._  
  
_As far as Jack knows, you’re on vacation in Greece. Meanwhile, what the so-called Dragon Lord actually intends for Earth, and with proof, I don’t care what our source wants from you._  
  
_Wait just a minute there. What does the source want?_  
  
_Who cares?_  
  
_I do, boss._  
  
_They claim that they want a soft piece to boost tourism. They want you to go to the inn, and wait for them to set up a meeting. Those are the only instructions._  
  
_And you don’t think this someone isn’t jerkin’ our chain? Tryin’ to suss us out for cause to sanction Overwatch?_  
  
_I won’t bullshit you about the risk, but if there’s even a shred of opportunity here, then this is the kind of break into Hanamura proper we’ve been dyin’ for. Otherwise, it’s back to the endless bad tips and whatever scraps we can cobble together from social media. I’m tired of it. I’m already in enough shit trying to justify our operating costs to Jack. I’m fuckin’ desperate here, cowboy._  
  
_So, it’s all peachy to put my chapped ass on the line. I see how it is._  
  
_If that doesn’t motivate you, then maybe this Hanamurian could tell you something about that fancy toy in your head._  
  
_Yeah. Maybe. Alright, I hear you. But what if this is just a big load of cattle manure? What if this Dragon Lord really is just a nice, straight-shootin’ sort of fella?_  
  
_I trust you to keep that open mind. Just don’t let your sauce-addled brain fall out. Ain’t just Blackwatch, but Earth could be counting on what you discover._  
  
_Well gee, when you put it like that. No pressure or nothin’. I just want to make one thing clear. I’m reportin’ on the truth, and only the truth. Not for you, not for Jack, and whether you like what I find or not. Fair?_  
  
_That’s all I ask. Prove I didn’t save your flea-bitten corpse from rotting out in the desert for nothing. You get me something, and I promise to stop holding that over you._  
  
_Gee, boss. Thanks._  
  
_You’re as clever as you are irritating, and I mean that in the best way. And with you, I won’t have to hire you any security. You can handle yourself, so why the long face? You should be fucking thrilled._  
  
_Oh, I am. Over the moon._  
  
_That’s the spirit. Athena has your bank account access as well as your accommodations detailed on that tablet. Use it to document as much information for your story as you can. I’ve arranged for you to be on that transport in the next twelve hours. Best start packing._  
  
_Always do, boss._

* * *

  
  
Chrono-accelerators, short-range teleporters, omnics.  Hanamurians sure did have a lot of fancy tech that to McCree, might as well have been magic. Perhaps the wildest of all: hyperspace travel. Only for approved and registered human vessels, however. The jump takes about half an hour.  
  
The spaceship rattles again, signaling its descent into atmosphere. In a passing, childlike fancy, he wishes he had a window for the view, and to have a working image of how big the Hanamurian capital appears from space. The cargo shifts back and forth as the rattling amplifies to full-blown turbulence. McCree picks a point ahead and focuses on it in a bid to stave off the nausea welling up in his stomach.  
  
In the span of thirty seconds, the rattling dwindles and stops, though his stomach takes at least twice as long to settle. He rolls his shoulders as he feels the planet’s gravity take hold of him as the ship banks and spirals downward for a landing. He jostles along with it when it touches down on solid ground. He straightens, but seizes when a stab of pain rewards him for the stretch of his compressed spine. He curses under his breath.  
  
“Gettin’ a little long in the tooth, old boy,” he mutters.  
  
He swallows down his lingering nausea as sunlight pours in from the cargo door as it starts to open with a loud whine. Once the door locks and the engines cycle down, human workers pour in to begin unloading-- and to collect the rest of their payoff. He slips notes into a few palms and they lead him from the tarmac to the shelter of the customs terminal.  
  
With a little more grease, the merchants manage to schmooze him through customs. Some clever story about McCree being a famous movie actor. He goes along, keeping his hat brim low and pretending to be above the scrutiny of rabble. The customs officer pretends to care as he stamps and waves him through without even a second glance.  
  
McCree bids his benefactors adieu with a tip of his hat. He bends forward to light up one of his pilfered cigarillos, then takes in the hustle and bustle laid out before him. Sink or swim, he thinks, and he feels like a mighty small minnow as he dives into the fast-flowing current of crowds moving among giant glassy spires. Traditional wood and polished stone mix seamlessly with steel and crystal. They dazzle with the warm gold light of Hanamura’s sun, as do the clouds and puffs of fog that roll through the streets. Some roofs and eaves sport intriguing flair: mostly carvings of cloudy swirls and intricate blossoms. Every tree branch burgeons with the softest pink petals, which seem to rain down endlessly.  
  
Then there’s the _big floating castle._  
  
He makes a double-take. He confirms, yes, it is big, and yes, it is floating. Hovering high above like a giant UFO, powered by god knows what.  Magic.  Regardless of the how, the myriad sloping rooftops and buffer of towering walls make it an enchanting sight to behold. A ring of ethereal clouds surround the base, and jagged earth pokes through underneath, as though the land were torn up from the ground like a plant out of a clay pot.  
  
Floating castles-- he’ll never get over the sight of that. _Snap_ , _snap_ , and it’s more photos to tell a story better than any words can describe.  
  
Other curiosities he sees: dragon sculptures. Some serene, some fierce with fangs bared. He wonders if the difference has any significance to the kind of business being conducted. _Snap_ , _snap,_ and he notes the question on his tablet. He also notes the city itself is tucked along the banks of a wide, winding river on its south side, and bordered to the north by a range of white-capped mountains.  
  
“So this is Hanamura, the capital city. On Hanamura planet, in the Hanamura system. Creative with everything else except names,” he says into the tablet. He brushes shoulders with humanoid and omnic alike, trying not to show his discomfort with the later. He wonders if one day, omnics will intermingle with humans just as freely on Earth.  He shudders at the idea.  
  
After indulging a bit of gawking, he pauses along a bustling sidewalk, tablet in hand, to remind himself of the hotel’s location, as well as the name of the proprietor, Ana Amari. He scratches his scruffy chin as he scrolls through the accompanying photos of the inn their inside source provided. They depict not so much a hotel, but an old, wooden shack of barely two stories. It sticks out like a sore, time-eaten thumb smack in the middle of the monuments of progress flanking it.  
  
He, however, loves it. It reminds him of the dusty inn his foster parents used to run outside Santa Fe. He smiles at the memory.  
  
“You lost?”  
  
The tablet nearly tumbles out from his grasp when he feels a hard tap on his shoulder. He turns to see a Hanamurian, and the vertical slits of his pupils trained squarely at him. He appears to be some sort of stuffy businessman, if the pressed suit and dress shirt are any indication.  
  
“Nope,” McCree answers, pocketing the device.  
  
“You’re a little far from the tourist district, Earth monkey.”  
  
“That’s because this ape ain’t stayin’ over there. I appreciate the concern, though.” McCree tips the brim of his hat. “You have yourself a nice day, now.”  
  
When McCree turns away, he feels another rough clap on his shoulder that spins him back around. The Hanamurian’s face hovers nary a foot away from his.  
  
“What sort of business does an Earth monkey like you have around here?” the Hanamurian demands. His gaze floats to McCree’s right eye, at which he reels.  
  
McCree smirks, rolling the cigarillo between his lips. “Now that just ain’t very polite, but I suppose I've come to expect that from Hanamurians. How about my business stays mine, and yours stays yours? I’ll even forgive your laying a hand on me. As we monkeys say, ‘live and let live.” As he speaks, however, he slips his hand every so subtly down toward his belt until his fingers rest atop the stock of Peacemaker. He meets the Hanamurian’s unnerving stare. The length of time that passes makes the situation that much more creepy, but McCree never backs down from a game of chicken.  
  
The Hanamurian finally gets the hint. He steps back and says, “I don’t understand it. Your species is unworthy to walk among us. You should have been turned back at our gates.”  
  
“You’re certainly entitled to your opinion,” McCree answers, biting his tongue. He lowers the hand resting over Peacemaker. He’d rather swallow his pride than face a torturous death by the hand of Reyes for getting ejected from Hanamura in less than an hour.  Or executed.  
  
The Hanamurian scoffs. He glances down at McCree’s artificial limb. “We worked, we toiled, we earned our greatness over thousands of years, yet your kind shares in the benefits in only a matter of decades. You’re cultural rubbish that got a lucky break.”  
  
McCree takes a deep breath, restraining the surge of indignation within his breast. He says, “You know, I hear your feelings. When you put it like that, you’re right. It don’t much sound fair.”  
  
The Hanamurian furrows his brow, visibly taken off guard.  
  
McCree’s eyes darken as he continues, “But jus’ how the hell you think we feel? You guys just came outta nowhere and decided to upend our whole lives. Some of us-,” he pauses, flexing his robotic arm. “Some of us fought and lost big against the change. But you know what? I couldn’t control how our governments came to this deal anymore than you could. Now, what’s done is done. Can’t put this genie back in its bottle. So the best we can do is try and tolerate one another, or just walk away. Capiche?”  
  
He didn’t intend for the amount of acid in his tone, but it seems to cow the Hanamurian. Yet before the latter can reply, the Hanamurian’s breath catches and he steps back further, his eyes widening to saucers.  
  
“Hey, now,” McCree says, miffed. “I’ve had just about enough of all this.”  
  
A figure glides past his shoulder. The dark cloak the figure is wearing over their head and shoulders is only a little less intimidating than the dazzling, curved sword strapped to their back, the business end swooping from shoulder to the back of their knee. The craftwork is elegant perfection, with a stunning tinge of green running along its diamond-honed edge. Across the small of his back rests a matching short dagger tucked in its sheath.  
  
With the cloaked stranger’s back to McCree, the latter cannot get a look at their face. It must be terrifying, however, if the drain of color from the Hanamurian’s complexion was any proof. The figure also pulls inquiring looks from other pedestrians like a magnet, and who also give them wide berth.  
  
“Who…!” the Hanamurian starts.  
  
The cloaked one says, “Come. This is no way to treat a guest in our lands. I suggest that you apologize.” The deep, masculine voice warbles and resonates as though a computer’s approximation of human speech. Omnic, McCree wonders.  
  
The Hanamurian snaps to McCree. He bends almost completely in half as he bows low. He says, “Forgive my rudeness!”  
  
“It’s really no trouble,” McCree says, more to the mysterious stranger than to the Hanamurian. “I’d just rather be on my way.”  
  
“Indeed,” the stranger says. “You heard our guest. Please, carry on, and mind your own business from now on.”  
  
“I-I will! I will! Please, do not punish me!” the Hanamurian replies. The stranger jerks his chin to the side, and the terrified Hanamurian sprints off past McCree.  
  
The latter watches him go, and some measure of his indignation turns to pity. He turns back to the stranger, saying, “I feel like I owe you one, but feel sort of bad now that you scared the yellow out of him.”  
  
He understands the Hanamurian’s fright when at that moment, the stranger twists his head around to meet his eyes. The stranger’s pupils are slitted, as McCree has come to expect, but a neon green energy froths behind his irises like smoke behind viewing glass. Equally striking is the polished metal plate in place of where his mouth, chin, and ears would be, were he entirely flesh and blood. Only from the mouth and chin up does he appear humanoid, with a thatch of spiked black hair sticking out from under the hood. McCree’s mouth runs dry at the question of whether the stranger is truly friend or foe.  
  
The stranger’s robotic voice sounds, “You need not concern yourself. Tell me, where are you staying? I am willing to escort you.”  
  
“No, thank you,” McCree says, perhaps a bit too quickly to be considered polite.  He walks it back, saying, “I couldn’t possibly impose. You’ve done me a kindness, and I ain’t wont to take out more debt than I can repay. Unless you’re thinkin’ of moseying’ on over to Earth sometime, that is.”  
  
If it weren’t for the metal mouth, he thinks he might have seen a smile cross the stranger’s lips. He replies, “I do not consider it an imposition. After this, I would be careless not to ensure that you arrive at your destination safely.”  
  
McCree considers it. “S’pose you got a point, there. ‘Sides, I’d feel a mite better about having a local telling all the busybodies to fuck off instead of me.”  
  
The stranger chuckles. “You Earth humans can be so...forthright.”  
  
“I’d say we’re a mixed bag.” He pulls the tablet from his pocket. “I’m staying here.” He shows him the picture of the inn.  
  
“Ah, I know it. It’s not far.” At that, the stranger starts up a brisk pace.  
  
McCree scrambles to match him. He asks, “So, uh, what can I call you?”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“What’s your name?”  
  
The stranger shakes his head. “That is unnecessary.”  
  
McCree scoffs. “Well, then it’s nice to meet you, Mister Unnecessary. Name’s Jesse McCree.”  
  
That spurs another chuckle from the stranger. “Likewise, Mister Jesse McCree.” He turns to him, focused. “You have an unusual prosthesis, for an Earth human,” he says, pointing to McCree’s right socket.  
  
“Seems we have something in common. Well, you more than me,” McCree says, making a show of looking him over.  
  
The stranger hums in amusement.  
  
“You’ve met Earth people?” McCree asks.  
  
“I have.”  
  
The part man, part machine before him already set off his investigative instincts, and seizes the chance to strike while the iron’s hot. The warm interaction whets McCree’s confidence, and so he gambles on a little bluff. He says, “Had a bum eye since I was a kid. Then your folk came and the doctors fixed me right up.”  
  
The stranger regards him, then says flatly, “I am glad our knowledge could help you.”  
  
“More than this fool deserved. Millions of us fools, I’d wager. You’re the best thing that ever happened to humanity.”  
  
A pensive hum escapes the stranger while turning his eyes to the sidewalk ahead. He then says, “Your deception is quite obvious, Mr. McCree. It will not work on our people. Do not be too eager. Best to be genuine.”  
  
Chastened, he folds on his bet. “Good to know.” McCree tips his hat forward and makes a begrudging mental note of the stranger’s advice. The awkwardness that follows douses McCree mood for idle chat, and they travel for the next two blocks in silence. At the next corner they round, McCree can see the old inn plainly. The stranger slows his pace, and McCree passes him, saying, “Think I got it from here.” He turns to look over his shoulder. “Thanks again.”  
  
He’s stunned - and chagrined - to find his companion missing. He glances about, only to confirm his complete disappearance.  
  
“Fuckin’ weird-ass planet,” McCree grumbles as he crosses the street to the inn.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI, _italics denotes past/non-present_

_God, he could use a smoke._  
  
_The cigar must have fallen from his lips back along the road behind him. Sometime after the omnics’ ambush outside the Panorama Diner, and before his left arm felt awfully light, due to the lower half of it resting in the dirt a few meters back._  
  
_Speaking of light, his head felt like a balloon, even after he pinched off the rest of his arm with his belt. He lost a lot of blood. Where was his damn cigar?_  
  
_The short cluster of boulders he leaned against for cover rattled with all-too-close booms and cracks of gunfire. He rolls the chamber of Peacekeeper with the thumb of his still-attached right hand, and locks it in place with a flick of the wrist. He’s so tired. And thirsty._  
  
_With a heave, he rolls out from behind cover, and pops off six rounds in rapid succession. A handful omnics fall around his good-for-nothing comrades, giving them space to retreat._  
  
_Git goin’, idiots!_  
  
_That’s when a bloom of red bursts across his vision like a paint bomb full of splinters. Ungodly pain bores into the right side of his skull, of his very mind. His legs give like rubber. His nose breaks when he tips forward and smashes it into the ground. Mercifully, his consciousness fades as his warm pressure fills his head from chin to crown._  
  
_Before he blacked out, he felt a peace he’d never forget. Though he still could have used that smoke._

* * *

  
  
McCree doffs his hat as he knocks, then pushes open the creaky wooden door of the inn. He looks over the interior in an arc, seeing it consistent with the modest but cozy theme, more quaint cottage than stuffy hotel. The carpet and upholstery in the lounge looks to have been installed within the past five Earth years at least, and a bathtub-sized, tiered waterfall fountain is a quaint touch.  
  
He spots a Hanamurian stationed at the front desk, with jet black hair and even darker eyes-- one of which has a curling ink black tattoo that trails down her cheek. He’s relieved when she looks up from the desk and smiles.  
  
“Welcome to Horus Inn,” she says, her voice spirited and commanding.  
  
McCree bows once and says, “How do you do. Are you Miss Ana Amari?”  
  
She snorts. “She is my mother.”  
  
“Please accept my sincerest apologies, ma’am. Whom do I owe the pleasure of meeting, then?”  
  
“My name is Fareeha Amari.” She straightens, giving him a once-over from behind the counter. “You must be the one from Earth.”  
  
“In the flesh, and a long way from home. Appreciate you all puttin’ me up.”  
  
Fareeha comes around from behind the counter, saying, “Don’t thank me. My mother couldn’t stop talking about hosting someone from Earth.” She gives him a once-over, pausing each at his eye and prosthetic limb. “Although I have to agree with her, it’s exciting to meet you in person. I thought you’d be shorter.”  
  
It’s McCree’s turn to chuckle, releasing air from his lungs he did not realize he was holding back. “I can’t say everyone has been as open-minded. But excuse me, where are my manners? Name’s Jesse McCree.” He offers his gloved hand to shake.  
  
She, however, knits her brow at his gesture, and it’s then he realizes his error. “Um, sorry. Earth custom is to shake hands when they meet someone for the first time.”  
  
“Shake hands?” she repeats.  
  
“Usually Earth people use their hands like so. May I?” He points to her right hand. With brow still furrowed, she cautiously offers her hand. He then fits his gloved one into hers, and shakes it with a gentle squeeze. “It does seem right funny now that I think about it.”  
  
“A strange but not intolerable custom,” she says, withdrawing her hand and wiping her palm on her thigh. “We bow our heads, like so.” She places her hands at her sides, then leans in a shallow bow. “But I thank you for the demonstration. You may be the first one from Earth we’ve hosted, but with any good fortune, you may not be the last.”  
  
He mirrors her bow. “Anytime. Say, I’d love to meet Ana. She around?”  
  
Fareeha returns to the other side of the desk, saying, “I’m afraid she’s out at the moment. I can check you in and give you your room access in the meantime.”  
  
“Thank you kindly.” He observes her while she punches commands into the kiosk behind the desk. A few stacks of brochures are lined up at the corner of the counter. After a cursory glance at them, he says “Know of anywhere nearby a lowlife rascal like me might quench his thirst?”  
  
Fareeha curls her lip as though intrigued by the question. “A lowlife rascal like you, huh?”  
  
“Heh, right. As a matter of fact, just tell me where the locals go. I’m a journalist, so I’m lookin’ to jump right in.”  
  
“You’re a what?”  
  
“A journalist?”  
  
“Right. Okay.” After another few strokes at the keypad, she hands him his room key. “Nearest place I can think of is about two blocks west of here. The Drunken Dragon.”  
  
“Right on, Drunken Dragon, got it,” he says. Prompted by the name, he pulls out his tablet. Opening the notepad application, he says, “By the way, would you mind enlightening me as to the significance of dragons in Hanamura?”  
  
She glances away in thought. Then, “In simple terms, we consider them our ancestors. Whether that is fact or myth depends on who you ask. Families like the Shimada, however, claim to have dragon blood running in their veins, and many people believe that at least in a spiritual sense.”  
  
“Shimada, huh,” he mutters. “That’s the Dragon Lord. He live up there in that castle?” He points upward.  
  
Fareeha nods. “Yes, that is him.”  
  
“I see.” He pockets the tablet. “Appreciate it. Tell Ana I look forward to meeting her when I get back.”  
  
“I will.”  
  
He winks at her, placing his hat back on his head.  
  
“Hey, wait,” she says. He stops and turns as he expression grows serious.  
  
“The Shimada are controversial, to say the least. You might want to use some...discretion when bringing up the name. Especially since you are a foreigner.”  
  
“Oh, I’m famed for my discretion, miss,” McCree says, lifting and dropping his heels so that his spurs jingle.  
  
She sighs, though he can tell she’s fighting a smile. “Just be careful. You’re a paying customer after all.”  
  
“Your compassion is touching,” he says, putting on a dramatic air with a hand over his heart. And finally - finally - she grins. Victorious, he bids her farewell.

* * *

  
  
_McCree stands on a shallow rise overlooking a dead meadow. A blizzard of ash whips at his cheeks, rising from the mangled steel and fiery lakes of oil that litter the ground below. They’re the shattered remains of a rail car, with the rest of its derailed train having scoured long tracks in the dirt. Everything is red. The sky. The withered flowers. The sun beats down at twelve o'clock, but all is as red as dusk._  
  
_Hot smoke lines his throat and chokes him._  
  
_Below dotting every flat surface of the facility, there are faces. Omnic and human, blood-caked and smudged with soot, twisted in the repose of the dead. He doesn't know who they are. He doesn’t remember killing them. But somehow, somehow he knows he is responsible._  
  
_Suddenly, a whirlpool of shadow forms before him. Out from it, a black-hooded man with a skeletal mask rises, as a specter might rise from its grave, with arms crossed over his chest. The right of his serpentine eyes glow like a red hot coal. Its left is blacked out, as though burnt through._  
  
_McCree aims Peacekeeper, saying,_ "What is this?"  
  
_How invigorating it is to explore the mind and character of one who is neither constable, nor king._  
  
_McCree reels. Though much rougher and gravelly, he recognizes the voice._  
  
"Gabe?"  
  
_Nor even of Hanamura. What a strange culture you come from. Yet I observe neither origin nor rank, only word and deed._  
  
"The hell are you talkin' about? What is all this?"  
  
_I have served kings with less blood on their hands._  
  
"Hey, it ain't like I'm proud.” _He looks at Peacekeeper in his hand, then back to the bodies._ "As if you can judge me, Gabe."  
  
_The ghoul chuckles, then erupts with full-throated laughter._  
  
_I couldn't care less, cowboy._  
  
“Who are you?”  
  
_Some call me the Red. The West, or the Dusk. If ‘Gabe’ suits you, so be it._  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
_I just want to understand the man who did this._  
  
“I ain’t that man no more. I’m changin’ my ways.”  
  
_Why?_  
  
“‘Cause I’m tired. Tired o’ bein’ sore, bein’ thirsty, bein’ half-dead with no sleep. Tired o’ losin’ what little I still have.”  
  
_Oh, dear me, you poor baby. I could ensure you never lose again. Even with half my power, you would put my brothers and sisters to shame._  
  
"You know, I always figured you was the Devil incarnate. Can't stand that I keep just out of reach of your fiendish clutches, so now you're here to torment me anyway. Good thing I know better than to bargain away my soul."  
  
_Big words, however misguided. I do not wish to bargain. That implies endorsement on your part. My terms are unilateral._  
  
“What terms?”  
  
_Plan. Deceive. Overcome. Track down your answers. I wish to observe your character._  
  
"I still don't follow."  
  
_Hone your instincts. Sharpen your tools. Make your proof, and I shall serve you._  
  
_McCree shrugs._ "And just what's at stake here, exactly?"  
  
_The skull-faced man points to his right eye._  
  
_Once I have examined you to my satisfaction, my decision will be swift, and it will be final._  
  
_McCree lurches when a fierce flame rips through his eye. He cries out until hoarse, and his mind blanks with searing pain, as though the right side of his head were being replaced with the core of a volcano. He stumbles forward and falls to his knees._  
  
"What-, what the-!" _He grinds his teeth, vomit pooling at the back of his throat._  
  
_Let’s see what you are made of, cowboy._  
  
_McCree jolts upright in his bed, at the edge of hyperventilating. He blinks until his lungs settle, and his eyes assure him that he is back in his quarters at Gibraltar. The hiss of ocean spray outside his window soothes him further. When his pulse calms, he rolls out of bed and plods to the washroom._  
  
_He leans against the sink and stares at his reflection in the mirror, noting the sheen of sweat covering his head and torso. He lifts his flesh hand and touches it to the bottom lid of his right eye. He rubs it, damning the doctor's advice. After several rapid blinks, it feels better, and he can almost hear the motors running as the iris expands in the dark._  
  
_Dawn creeps up over the ocean. As he washes his face in the washroom, he tenses when a residual red glow burns in his artificial eye. Or so he thinks. When he leans into the mirror to have a closer look, the color is a cold, neutral gray._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugh jass chappy. Finally gettin' to the mchanzo
> 
> **There is ART with this chapter, generously provided by[murgamurg](https://murgamurg.tumblr.com/)!**  
>  Go let them know how terrific they are!

He bites off the tip of another Lucky Seven, and with a flash of his lighter and a few puffs, the tip glows to life. As he pockets the lighter, he glances up to a flickering neon red sign with lettering he can’t read. According to Athena’s translation, however, it says ‘Dragon of the Drink’. Shrugging, he peers through the open-air doorway allows him to confirm that, at the very least, it’s a bar.  
  
He burns up a quarter-length of the cigarillo before he musters the nerve to walk in. He steps through open doorway, and immediately notes the haze of smoke hanging down from the ceiling. The checkered tiles of the floor are cracked and discolored. A few lonely drinkers nurse bottles at the few weathered tables in sight, and seem soaked enough not to notice nor care about his arrival. It’s a dive, alright, and it gives McCree pause to wonder exactly what Fareeha thought about him.  
  
And how she knew exactly what he had in mind.  
  
He squeezes into a seat at the bar counter. A fearsome-looking meat hook overhangs the shelves of liquor bottles. He scans the array of poison, his comprehension twisted as much as the foreign lettering squiggled on the majority of the advertised stock. He tilts his head, as if that would make the inscriptions any more legible. A frustrated sigh escapes him as the barkeep approaches.  
  
McCree tries not to grimace at the lumbering mountain of a creature. The barkeep appears humanoid, but a stitched leather mask covers what might be something like a hog’s snout. He snorts and snuffles like one, and is quite portly, with a loose knot tying up a nest of stringy, white hair. A pair of goggles covers his eyes, but McCree senses his penetrating gaze roving over him. McCree isn’t entirely convinced this fellow’s a Hanamurian, either.  
  
After a heavy breath, the barkeep barks, “What’ll it be?”  
  
"Whiskey," McCree says, pulling the cigar from his lip. “Preferably Earth-like. If ya got it.”  
  
The barkeep huffs. “You’re in luck.” He disappears momentarily as he reaches down behind the counter. Rising, he produces a bottle and an old-fashioned whiskey glass. “Had some shipped in a while ago. Just for the novelty. Nobody else orders this shit.”  
  
It’s not just whiskey, it’s bourbon. Quality Kentucky stock, and its dark caramel coloring calls out to his dry taste buds. McCree tries to deny his thirst, but he knows his hard swallow gives him away. He recovers with a clearing of his throat. “All the more for me, then?”  
  
The barkeep chuckles, but a wheeze and a hard cough follow. He pops open the stopper and he pours him a single. “Sure, yeah, so long as you’re good for the cash. Otherwise, I’ll take your guts as payment.”  
  
McCree takes another glance at the meat hook. “I’ll keep that in mind.” McCree retrieves his billfold and extracts several notes. He presses them to the table and slides them toward the barkeep. “This enough for a few rounds?”  
  
The barkeep picks them up and examines them in the light.  
  
“You gotta do that right in front of me?” McCree says.  
  
“Just makin’ sure,” the barkeep says, chuckling. “Yeah, this’ll do.” He pushes the full glass toward him.  
  
“Muchas gracias, amigo.”  
  
The barkeep grunts, then shakes his head. "Right. So. Earth, huh?"  
  
"Yep,” McCree says. He knocks half the drink back with a raspy sigh, “What gave it away?” he asks rhetorically, emphasizing with an exaggerated raise of his glass and a run of his finger across the brim of his hat.  
  
As he puts the notes in the till, the barkeep answers with a _heh_ \-- but it’s hollow and chilly. "Out pretty far for a vacation, Earth man. Never seen one come so far into town, neither."  
  
"Earth man. I like that. And it’s more of a business trip." He downs the rest, then shakes his empty glass.  
  
The barkeep pours him another. "What kind of business?"  
  
"I’m a journalist."  
  
"The fuck?"  
  
McCree looks up sharply at him. "What you mean, ‘the fuck’? Ain’t nobody around here heard of ‘em? You know, like reporters. Newshounds. Ya’ll gotta have newspapers."  
  
The barkeep shrugs.  
  
McCree whips out his tablet and jots down the note: no newspapers. “Then how do you folk keep track of the happenings around these parts?”  
  
That question earns him a dismissive wave. “I own a bar. Don’t need no, what’s it? Newspaper.”  
  
McCree sits back with a huff and downs his second drink. "I reckon that’s a fair point.”  
  
“Still haven’t answered what it is you’re doing here, off-worlder. You ain’t stranded, are ya? ‘Could use another cute pair of hands ‘round here.”  
  
At that, McCree reclines in his chair, pulling the cigarillo from his lips. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I rather prefer my current line of work. Chartin’ the unknown. Answering the tough questions. This dog’s on a hunt to learn about the Hanamurian people, then bring what I've learned back to Earth. We don't actually know very much about your way o’ life, except for omnics and whatever your government deigns to share." He brings the glass to his lip and downs it. After exhaling, he holds up the glass and adds, "We don’t got a context, though, you know? But so far I’m pleased as punch to find at least one tradition in common. Didn’t expect to find Earth drink, that’s for sure. Good drink, anyway.”  
  
“Funny. Figured I took a bath on stocking it. Maybe if we get more o’ you journalists comin’ through, I’ll make my money back.”  
  
“That’s a distinct possibility, if I make it out alive and my story pans out.” He leans forward. “Say, after you pour me a double, would you be willing to answer a few questions?"  
  
The bartender huffs as he pops open the whiskey bottle and pours him what he asked for. "Nah, but best o’ luck to ya. Nice chat, Earth Man." McCree follows with his gaze, seeing a cloaked stranger pull up and hunch over the counter.  
  
The sight made his heart leap at first, as he believed it to be the half man, half machine he met earlier. He chills, however, when he spots a tuft of a jet black goatee sticking out from under the black hood-- as well as the long bow strapped to his back, rather than that giant sword. Like the sword, however, the bow is also an impeccable piece of craftsmanship, smooth and intricate, with blue scales carved on its limbs. The stranger’s glossy, plated knee-high boots also suggest an entirely different man, yet the similarities strike McCree as anything but coincidence. The hunch alone makes him itchy to walk over and ask him his name.  
  
He takes another long drag off of his cigar, then sips his drink. With the soothing warmth of the first two glasses spreading from his gut, he decides to savor his third for a spell as he observes the cloaked man. The bartender strolls over to the stranger. The stranger acknowledges him with a tip of his chin but says nothing, instead lifting a finger to which the barkeep nods and pulls out a snifter.  
  
He must have been staring, evidenced by the next thing McCree hears: "What's he staring at?"  
  
McCree jolts, ripping his attention away from the cloaked figure.  
  
"Eh," the barkeep says to McCree. "Quit botherin' him."  
  
"Ain’t mean no bother," McCree says, taking a sip of his drink.  
  
His ears prick up at the quiet exchange at the other end of the bar. His voice low, the barkeep says, "Says he's a journalist? From Earth."  
  
"The fuck is a journalist?" the cloaked man replies.  
  
"That’s what I’m sayin’," the barkeep says, snorting.  
  
There is a distinct pause before the cloaked man utters his next words aloud, at a purposeful volume so McCree could hear every word: "And Earth? That backwoods, low class, bumfuck nowhere of a planet, governed by violent mob rule? The ones we annexed because we felt pity for their lowly species? An act of well-intentioned but foolish charity by the Dragon Lord Shimada.”  
  
"Pardon me, fellas," McCree says, irritated. "But I can hear you."  
  
The cloaked stranger rotates so McCree can finally get a good look at him, and he fights the urge to reel at the man's smooth, handsome features, accented with a precisely-manicured black mustache and goatee. McCree sobers, however, when the stranger says icily, "That's the idea, you witless cur."  
  
"You don't know what a journalist is, and I'm the witless one?" McCree says hotly.  
  
"Oh, now I remember," the stranger says, venom dripping from his words. "Overwatch, was it? If you’re with them, then you're in the business of compiling uncorroborated gossip and rumor for public consumption and profit. A idiosyncratic pastime of Earth with little redeeming value."  
  
"That ain’t Overwatch’s style, amigo. That's _tabloid_ , not real, honest journalism. But I wouldn't expect you to know the difference."  
  
"It's irrelevant to us, so therefore it's all the same. A bumpkin like you should just give up, relax, spend your meager cash, and then go back under the rock where you came from."  
  
The bartender chuckles as he wipes down the counter. McCree says nothing, merely shrugs. He draws out his tablet and begins to pit-patter away on its screen.  
  
"What are you doing?" the stranger asks.  
  
McCree says nothing, casually puffing his cigarillo and sipping the rest of his drink.  
  
"Hey! Earth beast!" the stranger demands. "What are you doing?" McCree tenses as the stranger, in the corner of his eye, leaps up with a clatter and approaches him. He snatches his tablet away as the stranger reaches for it.  
  
McCree says, "Whoa, there. I'm taking notes while my memory is fresh. Don't worry, if every Hanamurian is as mean and ornery as a bull, like you are, then it's just confirm what Earth already expects. You can bet I’ll be thorough in describing your lovely character in intimate detail."  
  
The stranger's withering glare could have bored smoking craters into his skin. The bartender stops in the middle of drying a glass, his attention rapt. The stranger says, "As if we care what the people of Earth think of us. You surrendered. You are our subjects now." He glances to McCree’s prosthesis, then nods to his right eyeball. “Are you not grateful?”  
  
McCree shrugs, pulling the cigar away between two fingers. “Well, on paper we might be, and that ink dried a long time ago. And your omnic stuff sure is handy, I’ll admit,” he says, flexing his limb. “But you see, while other people might kiss your ass just ‘cause you're a high-falutin’ Hanamurian, lots of us don't give a horse’s ass what you are. You want our respect, our true respect? You earn it.” He takes another swig, then chuckles. “I'd say you're doing a bang up job so far. If everyone else treats me like I'm just a stupid bumpkin, then this will be a short trip and an even shorter report. Shame, and here I wanted to give something positive for Earth folk to think about for a change."  
  
At that, the stranger slips into the bar stool next to him. It’s then that McCree finally takes a uninhibited gander at him, and suddenly the oxygen in the room seems all too scarce. And not just from the smoke-- though the eddies between them make the sight positively hypnotic. If Hanamurian eyes creeped him out before, then the crystal blue irises of this peculiar stranger disabused him of that prejudice. Yet they roil and churn like a bottled tempest.  
  
The blue color complements nicely the man’s angular chin, robust brow, and rugged complexion. Strands of gray hair sprout at his temples, and evidence he is of approximate age to McCree. Yet the stranger’s unflinching stare unsettles him. He’s being sized up, and he hopes the stranger fails to notice the coiled tension in his spine. He fights the desire to tap out copious notes describing this arresting creature for the benefit of his story later, but for the first time in ages he’s not sure if he can come up with the right words.  
  
"I have an idea," the stranger says, an impish grin crossing his lips. "Drink with me.”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
The barkeep reaches for the whiskey bottle. The stranger stops him. “No, not that swill. You get him the good shit." He turns back to McCree, and with another flare in his eyes, "Hanamurian sake. Ever try it?"  
  
Taken aback by the sudden shift in tone, McCree gulps, finding his throat having gone bone dry. "No-,"  
  
"Of course not. Consider this an introduction to Hanamurian spirits for your report." McCree watched as the bartender pops the cork on a serpentine bottle pours out a strange, greenish concoction into a snifter. The stranger jumps up from his seat to fetch his own drink, quickly returning. He raises it, saying, "And an indulgence of my own curiosity. You might enjoy it, or you might choke to death on the floor. What do you Earth rubes say? Curiosity killed the cat. In this case, the cat will be you."  
  
McCree quirks a brow as the liquid settles, and as it does, the sickening green color dissipates into a clear liquid. He slowly lifts the lip of the snifter under his nose and takes a cautious whiff. He instantly recoils, as if the vapors alone singed off his every nosehair.  
  
The stranger chuckles. "But if the unique complexities of it overwhelm your simple tastes, then I'll make the day of the next fool who wanders in here. Can't let quality like this just go to waste-"  
  
"But satisfaction brought him back," McCree says.  
  
The stranger blinks. “Excuse me?”  
  
“You didn’t finish the poem. Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought him back,” he says-- no, declares, lifting the glass in toast.  
  
The stranger eyes him, and McCree detects what he thinks is mild amusement. Encouraged, he says, "We also say, 'bottoms up'." McCree makes the fastest peace with his Maker he has ever done before throwing back the beverage in a single swallow.  
  
He might as well have swallowed a river of psychotropic lava. The colors of his vision swirl together like an oil slick. He shuts his eyes, but multicolored nymphs dance across the back of his eyelids. His throat and stomach do not burn so much as boil from the inside. He has no idea how long his throat remains paralyzed, unable to breathe as the last drop drains through his gullet.  
  
The sound of riotous laughter, however, clues him back to the shores of reality like a foghorn to a freighter. Blotches of color reform into discrete shapes while he sputters and coughs out the lingering vapors on the back of his tongue. What he is more surprised to find, as his vision returns, is that he is no longer in the bar stool. Instead, he ended up on his back on the floor.  
  
"In one go. One go! Oh, wait! I think he's still alive."  
  
The face of the stranger appears hovering above him, and geez, he captivates like a gleaming gemstone. A mystic cavern full of gemstones. McCree winces at the dissolving taste in the back of his throat, but also at the wildly intrusive thought. He supposes that booze tends to do that.  
  
"You still breathing, Earth man?" the stranger asks.  
  
McCree gives a weak nod, but starts when he feels a strong arm snake its way under his back and lift him as though he were feather light. As he finds his footing, he glances over to the hand resting at his shoulder, noting their scales etched across the skin of the stranger’s wrist, and disappearing further under his sleeve.  
  
_No, it ain’t just the booze.  Hanamurian scenery sure is nice._  
  
As if to reinforce his amorous conclusion, the stranger holds up McCree’s cigar in his other hand. “Ah, Lucky Sevens. I have seen these,” He helps himself to a puff, then says, "Apologies, fool. I should have warned you. Nobody knocks down that shit in one shot."  
  
Plucking back the cigar, McCree brings it to his lips and smiles, saying, "Maybe they should. Wasn't so bad."  
  
Another burst of laughter erupts from the stranger, and it’s the prettiest song McCree’s ever heard. It fades when the stranger pulls away, dipping down to pick up McCree’s hat from the floor. The latter says to the bartender, "'Wasn't so bad', he says, as he collapses and nearly brains himself on the counter." He puts the hat back onto McCree’s head with a rough press.  
  
"Definitely wouldn't improve our image with Earth," the bartender says, with a wheeze and a cough.  
  
“That it would not." The stranger tosses back the last drops of his own drink and sets it down. It’s then he realizes that the stranger is examining his right eye. Closely. Then, without breaking his gaze, the stranger then says, "Get him another. I'm picking up his tab."  
  
“Uh-uh, no more of that shit,” McCree says. “‘Sides, I already paid up.”  
  
The stranger turns to the barkeep. “How much?”  
  
“Uh,” the barkeep starts, flustered. “Well-,”  
  
“ _How much?_ ” the stranger booms.  
  
McCree gulps as the tension in the air mounts. The barkeep withers under the stranger’s stare and admits, “Three thousand.”  
  
The stranger blinks. “Thousand? Absurd! That Earthen rotgut is not even worth three hundred.”  
  
“But-,”  
  
The stranger’s eyes flare blue with a burst of rage. “You disgrace yourself by taking advantage of a paying customer, whether he is Hanamurian or not. Apologize, and give this man back his money immediately!”  
  
Stunned, McCree stares at the stranger with astonishment. “Well, that’s one way to earn a man’s respect,” he says, inwardly wincing on behalf of the barkeep, his sizable girth practically plastered against the back of the bar.  
  
“Alright, alright,” the barkeep grumbles. “Fuckin’...” Beads of sweat gather under the barkeep’s chin as he hurriedly sets on the till and extracts his refund. He counts it out for McCree, who accepts it with a nod.  
  
“Just appreciate you fessin’ up to it,” McCree tells him, and confirms his earlier suspicion that this stranger must be someone powerful-- though he imagines he’d piss himself, too, were he ever on the receiving end. However, he also notes that this is not the first time an intimidating, misty-eyed stranger has now come to his aid. The connection is all but hitting him in the face, but when he looks upon the scowl marring the stranger’s face, a distressing brew of terror and admiration courses through his chest. Objectivity appears rather doubtful at the moment.  
  
Then, holding out his hand, the stranger says, "Hanzo."  
  
"What?" McCree replies, glancing at the outstretched hand. This one was tattoo-free. It’s absurd how fast he feels a cold sweat come on, as though he were a pimply teenager again.  
  
"You Earth fools have names, don’t they? And this is how they greet one another, is it not?"  
  
"Uh, right," McCree says. Taking his hand, he notes the strong grip. "I'm McCree. Jesse McCree."  
  
"McCree," Hanzo repeats, trying it out. "Welcome to Hanamura, Jesse McCree."  
  
"Hanzo. And just call me McCree. Pleasure to have your acquaintance. I think. Excuse me," McCree withdraws his hand and reaches for his tablet. “You don’t mind, do you? I’d like to give ample warning to my people about,” he glances to the serpentine bottle. “That.”  
  
The stranger chuckles. “By all means.” He catches the eye of the barkeep, who takes his cue to leave them be.  
  
“Who is that, anyway? Doesn’t seem, you know…” McCree starts.  
  
“Hanamurian?” Hanzo finishes. “No, he is not. That is Rutledge, but prefers his Junkertown nickname ‘Roadhog’.  His origin being another habitable world under Hanamurian dominion. A dusty, uncouth, lawless world. Much like Earth.”  
  
McCree listens while pattering out a string of adjectives and metaphors, trying to capture the effects of this particular Hanamurian sake. He also notes the proper price of Earth whiskey. He catches himself as his descriptions drift into blue, heavenly, and gorgeous. He shakes away the muddy thoughts.  
  
Hanzo asks, "So? How much about our society do you actually know?”  
  
McCree sets down the tablet. "Well, that’s why I’m here. Don’t know all that much outside of brochures and word of mouth. You’re a monarchy, spiritual, and incredibly advanced beyond our comprehension. Hanamurian omnics alone have utterly transformed our lives on Earth. Some of us even openly worship ya’ll. Even before the organized uprisings began.”  
  
Hanzo curls his lip. "Do you?”  
  
McCree hesitates. “Would it offend you to say I don’t? At least, I haven’t seen anything worth worshippin’ yet.” So he says, but the statement borders on dishonesty as he fights to maintain eye-contact rather than have his gaze roam down Hanzo’s chest and beyond.  
  
“I am not offended. Some measure of skepticism is a virtue.”  
  
“Though I also hear that some of you may actually have dragon blood.”  
  
Levity drains from Hanzo’s features when he says, “Who told you that nonsense?”  
  
“In fairness, they also said not everyone believes it in a strictly logical sense.” He reawakens his tablet. Hanzo, however, glances down at the device, visibly displeased. McCree sighs, putting it away. “Alright. I’ve been in the business long enough to tell when somebody don’t want this on the record, as we say.”  
  
“Thank you for your sensitivity,” Hanzo says. “Because I hold a somewhat controversial opinion.”  
  
“My favorite kind.” McCree leans in close enough to feel Hanzo’s breath roll across his chin as he sighs.  
  
“Dragons or no, we must seem like a very mysterious people to you, Mr. McCree. Arriving on your planet, sharing our technology, teaching you our methods, and only asking in return your acceptance of our perfunctory terms and your loyalty, all despite your resistance.”  
  
McCree nods. “It was unexpected, especially considering the hell some of us caused you folks.”  
  
“Exactly. What do you think about that?”  
  
McCree swallows thickly, the buzz of alcohol wearing off more sharply than he’d like. “Sheesh, which one of us is the reporter here?” He debates whether or not to confess his own private thoughts, but he is swayed by Hanzo’s level tone, and his gut telling him that his companion may already know the answer. “To be honest, it’s the real reason I’d risk life and limb to be here at all. Why I’d be stupid enough to travel by my lonesome inside the capital. Somethin’ ain’t right. I’d like to know what the Dragon Lord is planning.”  
  
A shallow smile returns to Hanzo’s lips. “Are you sure that is all there is?” He nods to McCree’s right side.  
  
“Y'mean my 'dead eye'?”

  
  
“‘Dead eye’?”  
  
“Yeah. ‘Cause it’s gray and lifeless. Anyway, It’s been giving me some trouble lately, so there’s also a side of medical tourism involved. Don’t tell my editor.”  
  
“Is that so?” Hanzo says cooly, but McCree catches a brief flash of surprise.  
  
“Yeah. Know anybody who might be an expert?” McCree hopes - prays - that the man sitting before him is his contact. Mister Moneybags himself. The man who might unfuck his head.  
  
“No,” Hanzo says flatly.  
  
McCree sighs. “Damn. I was hoping for a sec that you might be.”  
  
Hanzo regards him for a moment. Finally, he says, “While I am still undecided as far as your stupidity, I will admit that you are rather intriguing for an Earth human, Mr. McCree. Perhaps my prejudice is misplaced.”  
  
“McCree. Just McCree. And we run the gamut. Some of us you nailed right on the money. Most of us mean well, though.”  
  
“Then in the spirit of improving relations between our people, I have a proposal for you.”  
  
“Be still my weary heart,” McCree says, as thoughtless as a reflex. He curses his own rebellious mouth.  
  
Hanzo crosses with a look. “You have such strange ways of speaking.”  
  
“I’m gettin’ used to hearing that,” McCree says with a shrug, relieved that his careless words failed to stick. “What did you have in mind?”  
  
“I'm willing to be your...eh, _informant_ sounds too sinister. Guide, perhaps?"  
  
McCree sits up straighter. “You’d do that?”  
  
“Certainly. I am a local,” he says, and exchanges a look with the barkeep, the latter having returned within earshot. A knowing look, evidenced by the way the barkeep chuckles as he wipes down the counter. Hanzo continues, “Where are you staying?”  
  
He tests the limits of his spine as McCree straightens even more. “A little inn down the block from here.”  
  
“Ah, Ana,” Hanzo says, nodding. “She’s a fine woman. I must say, I admire your taste in accommodations. Even Hanamurians do not often appreciate the glimpse of antiquity she oversees.”  
  
McCree lifts his brow with a shrug. “I actually haven’t met her yet. But if she don’t outright reject Earth people, then she’s alright in my book.”  
  
“Then it’s settled. I shall inquire for you there tomorrow morning.”  
  
“Sounds like a winner. Thanks for the drinks, by the way,” McCree offers his hand, but then thinks the better of it. He remembers Fareeah’s demonstration, stilting his arms and bowing forward.  
  
Hanzo chuckles, returning the gesture. Before his cheeks can turn an uncomfortable rosy pink, McCree slides off of his stool and makes for the exit.  
  
“McCree.”  
  
McCree turns to look over his shoulder  
  
With all seriousness, Hanzo says, “I do not recommend exploring Hanamura any further without me.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” McCree answers. “Don’t worry-- this old dog’s got enough bite to back up his bark.” He tips his hat toward Hanzo.  
  
“So you say,” Hanzo says.  
  
At that parting remark, McCree could swear he sees arcs of electricity flash out of the corner of his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, **HUGE shoutout to[murgamurg](https://murgamurg.tumblr.com/)!** FANTASTIC work!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the feedback so far! Even for an AU there's not much reverence to canon here, so I appreciate the open minds XD
> 
> After this chapter, I'll probably have the next bit up sometime in the next week.

_Lord have mercy. What the-? Where…?_  
  
_Ah, Mister McCree! Glad to see you come back to us. How do you feel?_  
  
_Well how ‘bout that. Who might you be, and which part of heaven did I land in? Frankly, I was expecting the other place._  
  
_I am Doctor Angela Ziegler. I specialize in experimental restorative medicine. You still have your immortal soul for the time being, I assure you._  
  
_Well then, doc, to answer your question, it feels like I got kicked in the head by a mule. A herd of ‘em. Then they stepped all over me._  
  
_As to be expected. You were all but a flatline when Gabriel delivered you to me._  
  
_Gabriel? Gabriel Reyes?_  
  
_Yes. I am a friend of his. He said you were quite a character, though I didn’t believe it until I saw the hat and buckle._  
  
_Now it all makes sense. Pleased to meet you. Nice of ‘im to share the secret to his nine lives._  
  
_I’ll be happy to inform him that my treatment worked._  
  
_What worked? Wait. What is-what the hell? What the hell did you do to me?_  
  
_Mister McCree, please. You are alright. Do not panic, I beg of you._  
  
_What in the everloving_ shit _? What is this, this omnic_ bullshit _?_  
  
_Please. I know this is a great shock, but the grafts were the only way to save your life. I need for you to stay calm. Stress will could reverse your recovery._  
  
_Stress? Stress? I never wanted no omnic shit on me, part of me, or in my blood. I'm human! God damn it, I'm human, and I wanted to die human!_  
  
_By all accounts, you did out there. You lost a lot of blood along with your arm, and a bullet obliterated a quarter of your face. If not for the implant I had on hand, we would not be having this conversation._  
  
_Implant?_  
  
_Take a look. Here._  
  
_Now what in the fuck is this?_  
  
_An optical prosthesis I received from a Hanamurian who has an interest in my work. Their only instructions were to make good use of it. It wasn’t easy, but your body has finally accepted it._  
  
_Damn it, doc, body might have, but I don’t. See, here I thought I was about to meet my Maker, and now I wake to find some mad scientist turned me into a Hanamurian deathbot. Just put another round through my skull and get it over with._  
  
_It’s over, Jesse._  
  
_Over?   What you mean 'over'?_  
  
_You have been touch and go for about month. You should know that most of the organized fighting is over._  
  
_Like hell it is. Can’t be, doc. You’re yankin’ my chain. Us Deadlocks would never quit the fight, not until the last man. It’ll never be over, I guarantee that._  
  
_So much for that. As part of an agreement, Earth cracked down. This was shortly after I received you in my care._  
  
_Cracked down? Shit, doc. Damn. That...that still don’t matter. There must be some folks still left. They’ll slug it out even with their backs to a corner._  
  
_No, Jesse. Reports say the Deadlocks surrendered, and those who were not arrested fled into hiding. Caches were destroyed and accounts were seized. So was Gabriel’s gang. Everyone’s._  
  
_So why haven’t they busted down your door yet?_  
  
_Since you are in my care, I have been able to keep the authorities from detaining you for the time being. Seems you have a reputation to match your character._  
  
_I guess that’s what counts as comforting anymore._  
  
_I’m sorry._  
  
_Sorry, heh. Don’t be, doc. Guess we all knew the odds, deep down. You know, first I wake up to aliens on our doorstep, now I wake up to my crew being just, poof, gone. Gettin’ mighty sick of a world that seems to up and change overnight. But I guess it don’t need my permission, just like all this mess being attached to me._  
  
_I deeply regret that I could not obtain your informed consent. To be honest, I had doubts you would pull through, but Gabriel was quite insistent that I use everything in my power._  
  
_Insistent, hah. That’s puttin’ him mildly. No, it's alright, doc. I’m very much obliged for you saving my life, though I’m not convinced it was worth the effort._  
  
_It’s always worth the effort._  
  
_Where you say you got this thing, anyway? This eye ain't even close to looking human. Doesn’t even look alive._  
  
_They wouldn’t say. I prefer to keep that confidential, anyway._  
  
_Figures._  
  
_And unfortunately, the implant has grafted itself over the parts of your brain that were damaged by the bullet. It is why you are still lucid and able to speak and function. If I remove it now, you would likely relapse._  
  
_Also figures. Nah, doc. We'll see how it all holds up for now. Once I’m better, I’ll be out of your hair when they haul me away. How's the grub here, anyway? I'm starvin'._  
  
\-----------  
  
He waves his keycard over the reader, then again until it beeps and flashes green. The door swishes aside. He finds the hotel room not much bigger than a walk-in closet, just a few square feet shy of cozy. A modest twin bed is tucked in the corner opposite the door, and next to it stands a small wooden desk and chair. At the foot of the bed is a small dinner table. The stone hearth of a sealed-up fireplace stands on the opposite wall.  
  
He finds little to complain about when the door seals behind him and he tumbles back onto the bed, finding it acceptably firm. His head still hasn’t stopped swimming. His brain flounders in sorting out what in Doc Holiday’s ghost just happened at the Drinking Dragon. Drunken Dragon. Nothing good. _Something_ good.  
  
In a swift motion, he rolls out of bed, waits for his head to quit spinning, and slides into the desk chair. He tosses the tablet with a clatter onto the desk. He stares at it, its screen blank with a fresh page that awaits his scribing. Or dictation, which might be easier. His brain delivers neither.  
  
The unruly organ instead assaults him with the cut of Hanzo’s captivating figure. Hanzo’s eyes, ever a window into one’s soul, suggest that he is no mere commoner, the latter type whose eyes are muted and dull-- and narrowed in affront by his alien presence. Maybe at first, until they grew wide into idyllic springs as his hostility faded. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.  
  
A knock comes to his door. McCree fears if it’s morning already, as he does not have the sobriety yet to deal with Hanzo. Nor the inebriation.  
  
“Mister Jesse McCree?” calls sweetly from behind the door.  
  
The voice sounds far too pleasant to belong to Hanzo. McCree’s head sloshes again while he rises to his feet, and goes to open it. There, a woman with snow white hair stands at the threshold. Her right eye is patched, and from her left descends a tattoo that forks and curves up just over her cheek. Her good eye is weary with age, but sparkles with wonder. With pot holders, she carries a ceramic bowl with a lid with a slot for a spoon.  
  
“Ana, I presume?”  
  
She smiles and bows her head, saying, “Yes, indeed. I am Ana. I regret that I was unable to greet you upon your arrival.”  
  
“Uh, think nothin’ of it, ma’am. Your daughter was mighty helpful. An’ I regret bein’ a mite soaked at the moment.” Then, the mother of all mortification: he hiccups. “Not my bes’ first impression,” he says.  
  
Ana shakes her head. “She mentioned you took a trip down to the Dragon. Bold man,” she says. “I’m glad Fareeha could assist you. I hope to have her take over this old place one day.” She offers up the bowl. “I made way too much for us. I wondered if you might be hungry, but now I realize I don’t know how often an Earth human eats.”  
  
“How often d’you folks eat?”  
  
“Meals are once a day, more or less. We have light repasts or tea otherwise.”  
  
McCree nods. “Three meals a day is common on Earth, but everybody’s different. We like to have full meals at least as often as you.”

“Oh, wonderful. In that case, please accept this stew.” He moves aside as she walks past into his room, and sets it on the small dining table. She lifts the lid, and steam wafts out, the scent of which is nothing less than divine, rich with spice and fatty meat. The entire room smells heavenly in a matter of seconds. “I hope Hanamurian cuisine does not offend you,” she says.  
  
McCree’s stomach rumbles as she replaces the lid, and the sudden onset of hunger surprises as much as it does sober him. “Doubt it would. What kind of barbarian would I be if I sent back something that smells so delicious from such a lovely lady?”  
  
She bows her head with a blush. “Are Earth men all as charming as you?”  
  
“Hardly. Most of my friends on Earth say I have what we call a ‘silver tongue’. Ain’t always a compliment.”  
  
Ana leans up, her brow furrowed as though trying to peer into his mouth.  
  
“It’s a figure o’ speech,” McCree tells her.  
  
“Fareeha did say you talk rather strangely, silver or not.”  
  
He shrugs. “All part of the charm, I s’pose.”  
  
“Well, my dear, I hope you will enjoy it. Please let me know if there is anything else I can do to make your stay more pleasant.”  
  
“I’ll be damned if I could think of anything. Thank you very much, ma’am. I’m glad to know not everyone rushes to judgment about us Earth folk.”  
  
“A shame to hear you say that,” she says, heading back for the door. Over her shoulder, she says, “We’re still getting used to Earth people.” She turns to face him. “I don’t care what they say, I’m thrilled that you’re staying at my inn. I’m sorry if anyone has given you any trouble.”  
  
“Thank you, ma’am. And not entirely. And I think I’ve met someone who’s gonna help show me around.”  
  
“Oh really? So fast! Who is it? I may know them.”  
  
“Said his name was Hanzo. He sure seemed to know who you were.”  
  
At that, she blanches.  
  
McCree says, “What? You owe him money or something? You look like you jus’ seen the face of death.”  
  
Ana’s brows raise, and she grins, saying, “On the contrary. You said his name was Hanzo?”  
  
McCree knits his brow. “Who’s he? I got the impression he’s kind of important.”  
  
“Kind of important? Hah! Do you not know the names of the Shimada family?”  
  
This time, McCree feels his own color drain from his temples. “You tellin’ me he’s Shimada?”  
  
She nods. “Hanzo Shimada, the First Son of the Dragon.”  
  
“Holy shit, lady, and pardon my French. You’re tellin’ me I met royalty today?”  
  
“Formerly. But yes.”  
  
“Huh, I knew there was somethin’ about him, aside from the unusual eyes. I’ll be damned. And that fella settled my bar tab. But hang on-- what do you mean by ‘formerly’?”  
  
Ana’s mirth fades. “The prince was cast out of Heaven, for the crime of slaying his only brother, the late Genji Shimada, the Second.” He notices her head bowing deeply as she speaks.  
  
A chill runs through him. “Is it true?”  
  
Ana seems to consider her words before saying, “Yes. Hanzo went through with it.”  
  
The new information clashes with his impression of Hanzo, his disgust and curiosity mixing poorly as a twist of nausea overcomes him  
  
But then, Ana says, “However, I also believe there’s more to the story than what was admitted in the Court’s announcement.”  
  
“Which was?”  
  
“It’s well-known that Genji openly defied the Lord Shimada, and that is when he was not absent without approval. So it is said that finally, Hanzo acted to punish his incorrigible brother.”  
  
“I get the impression you feel differently.”  
  
“Hanzo, he...he is - was - an honorable man as a young lord. Straight as an arrow, and held everyone he met to the same high standards. The people admired him for it, even if he could be exacting at times. Though his reputation is in tatters as a disowned son, some of us still regard him with that same admiration, though perhaps with as much sympathy.”  
  
It relieves him to hear that. Nonetheless, he replies, “Some people can fool you. At least, that’s true of Earth people. Their mouth says one thing, then they go and do the opposite.”  
  
Ana’s frown deepens.  
  
McCree senses he struck a sore nerve. He says, “I guess in fairness to you, I can’t say I’m one to trust the official word on anything. I’d be a crummy reporter if I did.”  
  
At that, her expression lightens. “I’m very pleased to hear that.”  
  
“So what happened to him? To Hanzo?”  
  
“He was removed of his title, his right to succession, and exiled permanently from the castle grounds as his punishment. While some of us do what we can to lend him a hand, he is little more than an urchin these days.”  
  
The answer saddens him, more than perhaps it should. “I see.”  
  
“It is why I do not judge your people. Many Hanamurians may look down upon Earth and its culture, but Hanamura has much of its own character to sort out.” She takes a step forward, placing her hand on McCree’s shoulder. She tilts her head as she examines his right eye. “However, it’s my belief that your meeting with Hanzo’s approval speaks highly of your own character, Mr. McCree.” She pulls back and nods to the bowl. “This insignificant meal must seem like an insult to you.”  
  
“Not a chance, Ms. Amari. And I ain’t nobody special. I think I probably interest him like a set of keys interests a cat.” He sighs. “Still not sure if this whole trip was a good idea.”  
  
“I hope you will change your mind about that. Perhaps our disgraced lord will persuade you. Wouldn’t that be something?”  
  
“Yes, ma’am.”  
  
With that, Ana leaves him to his supper. The stew is as savory, complex, and delicious as it smells. The heavy meal, on top of his lingering inebriation, makes for an easy road to a long sleep.

* * *

  
  
_As I live and breathe._  
  
_Gabe? What are you doing here?_  
  
_Came to see for myself that the stinking ruffian decided to pull through._  
  
_The stinking ruffian. I like that. If they ever let me out, I’m gonna steal that for the bar I’m planning on opening now that the fightin’ days are over._  
  
_Best put those plans on hold. You’re coming with me._  
  
_Yeah, not gonna happen at the moment. The doctor ain't cleared me yet. Don't know what it is about hospitals that makes three days feel like three weeks, but I’m stuck here until I get her OK. Frankly, don’t know whether I’d prefer to stay here or let the feds toss me in the pen._  
  
_It's because your mind is running in the present while your body takes its sweet time catching up. Trust me, I've been where you are, but Ziegler is hands down the best care anyone inside or outside the law could ask for. How you holding up?_  
  
_Considerin’ the way I am now, I have no earthly idea. It's all still sinking in. Gotta admit, though, this machinery is nifty. Maybe even better than the real thing. Also hasn’t developed a mind of its own and tried to strangle me yet, so that’s a bonus._  
  
_I’m shocked that I didn’t find you trying to dig out that thing in your skull with a spork._  
  
_Well, seems fittin’ since I rolled one big fat pair of snake eyes down there by the diner. I guess that bullet opened my mind up a bit, in more ways than one. What are you even doing here, Gabe? Why’d you save this stinking ruffian’s old hide?_  
  
_Frankly, it was by happy accident. When I got word the Deadlocks were gettin' rolled by omnics, I came to repay some favors I owed you and your gang. I was too late, not that it mattered by the end of the week. When my men and I came across you, you were bloody hamburger. Barely hangin' onto a pulse. So I made a call to the best in the business._  
  
_Business of some mad, mad science. I had no idea you had this kind of an ace up your sleeve._  
  
_Depends on your perspective. In your place, I'd call it a miracle, even if it is Hanamurian tech._  
  
_So, then. If you ain’t in jail, nor retiring to the life of a humble serf, then what's the play now?_  
  
_The play is that you work for me now. I still need guys like you. Fighters. People I can trust to get a job done. It’ll be different than what you’re used to, but it’s work that will keep you alive and out of prison._  
  
_I’m listenin’._  
  
_But first, some questions. Consider it your interview._  
  
_Fire away._  
  
_How do you feel about your observational skills? Your nose for a story?_  
  
_Uh, well, obviously I grew up steeped in Southern culture. Love a good tongue-wag. It’s is in our blood._  
  
_Good. You remember Jack, yes?_  
  
_Who could forget that human golden retriever. Had one of the most successful rebel outfits up north._  
  
_And it’s for that that he’s less golden retriever now, and more silver fox. But no less dogged. And that's why we'll be combining our resources and expertise, only we're trading in guns and ordnance for cameras and microphones. We’re calling ourselves Overwatch for now._  
  
_Back up. Cameras and microphones?_  
  
_News and investigative journalism. Just ‘cause it ain’t guns and bombs doesn’t mean we can’t keep up the good fight. We’re calling ourselves Overwatch for now._  
  
_What, so we write up trash about who’s ridin’ who over in Hollywood? Can’t see how that relates._  
  
_Smartass. Right now it's a loose network of journalists from around the globe, but we’re growing. We'll be overseeing and reporting on Hanamurian dealings and influence. It’s what people need right now to make sense of the world._  
  
_And?_  
  
_And-...ugh. Okay. And it might also just be our get-out-of-jail-free card. We all promise to be good boys and girls and run a government-sanctioned press organization to appease Hanamura, and we get to walk free. But we’re all under the microscope. One step out of line, and it’s prison for all of us._  
  
_Sounds like a propaganda machine. You’re all running a goddamn propaganda machine, and all that other bullshit was just your fantasies running wild? You’re hopeless, Gabe. We’re hopeless._  
  
_I know, trust me. But it's the only thing we've got going for us, and we need to make the most of it. Information. Knowledge. With us rebels being forced to disband and reintegrate, it may be the only thing that keeps our race from becoming mindless servants of an alien empire. You get me?_  
  
_Yeah. I get you._  
  
_In the meantime, folks like Dr. Ziegler will have the time and our support to come up with countermeasures to tip the balance. Then, one day, we can strike back._  
  
_So that’s the real play. Overwatch as a stopgap until Earth can level the field, however long that takes._  
  
_Could be decades, but I'm a patient guy._  
  
_Jack is patient. Not so sure about you._  
  
_I'll do what it takes. You will, too._  
  
_Hold up. I haven't agreed yet._  
  
_After everything I just told you, and after saving your miserable life, you damn well have just agreed. Prison will be the least of your worries if you walk away. I’ll rip that eye right back out of you and toss you back onto Route 66 for the buzzards to eat. How’s that sound?_  
  
_Alright, alright. You find my girl, at least? Can’t feel good about my decisions until I consult with her._  
  
_Of course I did, you sentimental idiot. Here._  
  
_Well I'll be. There's my Susan, lookin’ as pretty as ever. Yep, I’d say she’s fine with all this, even if this son of a gun ain’t lookin’ as good as he used to. But mind you, she just likes me staying out of the pokey more than she likes you._  
  
_Ingrate. Then so be it. Get some rest, ‘cause you won’t get much once the doctor discharges you. I’ll send you a transport. We’ve put down some roots in Gibraltar. I'll be holding your obnoxious hat and buckle hostage in the meantime._  
  
_Then I guess you’re the boss, boss._


	5. Chapter 5

Morning arrives all too soon, and so does Hanzo. With his voice and a sharp rap of his own fingers against the wooden door, he heralds the rosy-fingered dawn looming just outside McCree’s door.  
  
“Earth man. I have arrived. You will join me as agreed.”  
  
McCree for his part barely registers the statement-- he pries his artificial eye open to let the sunlight in, the other firmly remaining shut. He scrunches up his face. “Fuck that,” he calls, rolling face-up in the bed. As he scratches his bare midriff, his rational mind catches up a second later, and he regrets it. Nonetheless, he debates on whether forfeiting Hanzo’s help might be worth a few extra minutes of shut-eye.  
  
The knock comes again, louder, dashing his hopes. “You will open the door this instant, lazy boor.”  
  
“Lazy boor?” McCree grumbles. He throws off his bedsheet. When he glances down at his bare chest, black skivvies, and socks, his good sense struggles once again under the weight of an impulsive, devious plot. “Fuckin’ show him who’s a boor.”  
  
He throws his legs over and stands, nabbing his serape and hat from the nearby desk. He throws them on, then stomps up to the door as if he also put his spurs on. The door slides open, revealing Hanzo wrapped in his black cloak. McCree beams as a look of pure horror blooms across Hanzo’s face.  
  
“What in the High Heavens!” Hanzo breathes, as though a dragon exhaling fire and smoke.  
  
“What? You look like you ain’t never seen a naked cowboy before,” McCree says, tipping his hat, and grinning at the intended reaction.  
  
“I ought to shoot that hat and lip off your ridiculous head!”  
  
“Hey now, you’re the one who asked me to open the door this instant.”  
  
“And I presumed an intelligent lifeform would also possess a modicum of decency! I shall not make the same error next time.”  
  
“Next time, huh?”  
  
“Do not push your luck.” Hanzo breathes in and out, snorting like a bull as he gives McCree another once over. “You have five minutes. Any longer, and I will find better uses of my time.”  
  
“Alright, alright. Just a harmless prank. Would it kill you to smile a little?”  
  
“Smiling at clowns is for children.”  
  
“Fine. Just think a smile looks good on you.”  
  
Hanzo reels. “ _Five minutes!_ ” He slams the door.  
  
“Christ,” McCree mutters, shaking off a flare of goosebumps.  
  
He throws on the rest of his clothes, stores Peacemaker and a few flashbangs at his side, and takes a few seconds to work out the kinks in his spine. He grins as he secures BAMF across his waist. He flies downstairs and gives a two-finger salute to Fareeha at the counter, who nods her good morning.  
  
Hanzo awaits him with folded arms. Fareeha says to him, “It was an honor to have you visit, Hanzo, however brief.”  
  
“The pleasure-,” he grumbles, eyeing McCree, “-was mine. Please give my regards to Ana.”  
  
“I will.”  
  
Hanzo’s gaze falls to McCree’s belt buckle.  
  
McCree thrusts out, offering a better look. “Like what you see? You know, a fellow like me could get the wrong idea.”  
  
“What does that inscription mean?”  
  
“Bad Ass Mother Fucker.”  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
“B as in Bad, A as in Ass, M as in-,”  
  
“Do all Earth people... _compensate_ as you do?”  
  
“Most of the time, you’d be right. But in this case, it’s just a courtesy to my enemies.”  
  
“So they know to pick you off first?”  
  
McCree smiles, despite his bruised pride. “Boy, you are a firecracker, ain’t ya.”  
  
“We have wasted enough time. Let us proceed,” Hanzo says, spinning on his heel and making for the door.  
  
“Can we get some grub first?” McCree asks following with a yawn. “Coffee, at least.”  
  
“I am unfamiliar with this ‘coffee’.”  
  
“What? We’re sending you cigars and booze, but not coffee? My God.” McCree whips out the tablet and dictates, “Note: invest in coffee if this report falls through and I end up shitcanned.”  
  
Hanzo suggests, “If you are hungry, perhaps our first destination ought to be the grand market.”  
  
McCree’s stomach leaps and tumbles at the prospect of greasy street food. “Sounds like a winner.”  
  
“Before we go any further, a moment.” Hanzo reaches into a pocket at his hip. He retrieves a small, gray drive the size of a cuff link. “Give me your device.”  
  
McCree pulls the tablet back, furrowing his brow.  
  
“We must have some means to communicate,” Hanzo explains, rolling his eyes.  
  
McCree frowns, but he gives it over. Hanzo snatches it and deftly attaches the drive and taps in a few instructions. A blue light on the device blinks to life. “There. Leave that on so that we may stay in contact in case we are separated.”  
  
“Well, ain’t that touching,” McCree says, quickly snatching back his tablet. “You can’t snoop around in here with this thing, can you?”  
  
“No. Nothing contained could possibly interest me.”  
  
“Won’t drain my bank account, neither?”  
  
Hanzo grows severe. “I need not rely on confidence tricks to get by.”  
  
“Didn’t think so, but I guess I’ll just have to take your word. Alright, partner, let’s giddy-up. This is your show.”  
  
Hanzo turns on his heel and wastes little time. He weaves them through crowded streets and narrow gaps between buildings as though he has done so thousands of times. McCree cannot stop staring, even as he quickly lights and puffs a cigarillo to life. Frays and stains cover Hanzo’s black hood and wrinkled black clothes. Rust and mud tarnish his steely boots. Only those strange eyes, and that elegant bow suggest anything highborn.  
  
Despite the shocking matter of fratricide, when McCree observes the way the man carries himself - spine straight, chin up - a jab of conscience begs McCree to confess what he learned from Ana. Demands him, even.  
  
His nerve dies when they turn at a cross street, and the floating castle bursts into view across the sky. McCree cranes his neck back, the sight somehow even more astonishing as the the morning light washes its walls with a gentle glow.  
  
“What’s that called?” he calls out to his companion.  
  
“What is what called?”  
  
McCree points to the castle.  
  
Hanzo sighs, but does not pause his stride. “That is Heaven.”  
  
“The castle itself?”  
  
“It, and its grounds. There are homes, shops, and noodle bars enclosed within. Even an arcade.”  
  
“How ‘bout that. Where I come from, Heaven’s not really a place a living soul could set foot on.”  
  
“Hm,” Hanzo grunts. “Move faster. We are almost there.”  
  
Even without the heads-up, McCree notices the crowds growing denser. Exotic scents waft and tickle his nose. The din of foot traffic and cacophonous conversation energize him. They squeeze through one last narrow street, and the concrete below McCree’s feet transitions to cobblestone. Immediately, they are wading in among tents and stalls along a wide avenue which seems to flow from the river behind them and straight on to the distant mountains. Over the tops of undulating heads, omnic street performers juggle and dance on platforms. McCree pauses to gawk and snaps several photos to boot.  
  
He only moves on he feels a hand grab and tug on his elbow. Hanzo speaks, but the noise of the crowd muffles him. McCree can just make out, “-eep up, Earth fool.”  
  
McCree shouts, “Hey, give the new guy a little time to take in the sights. This is incredible!”  
  
Unexpectedly, Hanzo smiles, as though McCree complemented the man personally. “Come. There are kitchens this way.”  
  
McCree needs little further incentive, but despite his hunger pangs, he fights the urge to stop when he comes across stalls filled to the brim with strange trinkets, flawless pottery, and glistening woodwork. A blast of heat brings sweat to his brow, and it’s then that he detects the measured _klinks_ and _clangs_ of metal striking metal. Sure enough, they pass by a forge, with a blacksmith and their apprentices scurrying about.  
  
McCree looks over to Hanzo. It was time to come clean, to lay out his cards. “Your bow,” he shouts.  
  
“What?” Hanzo shouts back.  
  
“Your bow made in a place like that?” McCree asks, leaning into his ear and pointing to the forge.  
  
Hanzo answers, “Most certainly not.”  
  
“Yeah, I figured. That right there on your back looks like a piece of Heaven.”  
  
Hanzo’s eyes narrow at him. “It is one-of-a-kind.”  
  
“So are you, from what I hear.”  
  
Bullseye.  
  
Hanzo stops short. He spins around and tugs McCree by the serape, and the latter grunts from the force. Hanzo drags him away from the chaotic throng of market-goers. It’s a measure quieter by the time Hanzo releases him at the mouth of an alleyway, saying, “What exactly are you trying to tell me?”  
  
“Just that I know you weren’t entirely upfront with me the first time we met. But that’s partly on me. I should have asked for your surname, your Princely-ness.” He bends in a gentlemanly bow, rolling the cigar around in his lips.  
  
“Prince,” Hanzo scoffs. He straightens, regarding McCree carefully. "How did you discover it?”  
  
"Ana told me who you are."  
  
There’s no surprise nor anger. Instead, Hanzo closes his eyes and nods. “Ah.”  
  
"Figured I’d let you know, since I don’t want to keep any secrets. I ain’t that kind of guy, and Ana tells me you’re an honorable sort. To be fair, I was well on my way to puttin’ it together. You don’t seem like a run-of-the-mill Hanamurian," McCree says.  
  
“You call me honorable, yet you likely know why I am down here, and not still among the clouds,” he says, solemn. He gestures up and in the direction of the floating castle.  
  
McCree steels himself, as though about to rip the bandage off: "They say you murdered your brother."  
  
At that, Hanzo grimaces. "And I suppose you just want the scoop? To weaken the name of our family on Earth by reporting on how dysfunctional and ruthless we are?"  
  
And as though to staunch the flow of a bleeding wound, McCree quickly says, "Probably wouldn't phase a lot Earth people. Doesn't phase me. Earth has had a long, tired history of fucked up royal families. Dysfunction is the rule, not the exception."  
  
Hanzo chuckles grimly. “Is that so.”  
  
McCree takes a measured breath, then says, “Hey, partner. I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to find out about your family’s dirty laundry this way. I just mentioned to Ana that I had met you at the bar, and one thing led onto the next.”  
  
“Dirty laundry? Heh, I suppose that is one way to describe it.”  
  
“An understatement to be sure, if even half of it’s true.”  
  
Hanzo nods. “No, Earth man. It is I who owe you the apology. I hoped to have given you a brief tour, then sent you on your way none the wiser. I consider my past...unnecessary to divulge to a clueless outsider. Burdensome, even.”  
  
“Unnecessary,” McCree repeats, pinching the cigarillo from his lips. “On the contrary. I ain’t so clueless, and I find it absolutely necessary.”  
  
Hanzo huffs. “For your miserable article?”  
  
McCree drops the spent butt of his cigarillo down to the cobblestones, and grinds it out with the ball of his foot. He sets a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder, and Hanzo questions him with an eyebrow. McCree says, "You know, I might be willing to bluff through a hand in poker, but that depends an awful lot on who's playing. With you, no bullshit. I'll be honest, yeah. The reporter in me thirsts for the truth somethin’ awful, about what happened to you, and to your brother. But not for Overwatch. For me, the man. Jesse McCree."  
  
At that, Hanzo lifts his chin, eyeing him carefully. The intensity threatens to make McCree shrink from him, but he can recognize when he is being assessed. With his pride on the line, he sets hooks his thumbs over his belt and does his best to look poised and relaxed. Maybe even to look good.  
  
Hanzo ends his scrutiny, saying, "Then maybe Jesse McCree will earn that privilege, and not Overwatch."  
  
McCree inhales sharply, unaware he was holding his breath. "Right on." He digs out and puts a fresh Lucky Seven to his lips.  
  
Hanzo turns on his heel and heads back for the bustling street. “Enough diversions. The kitchens are close. You can smell it, can’t you? I look forward to how you react to more Hanamurian fare.”  
  
Despite the strong odor of his cigarillo, the air is thick with the scent of charring meat and stewed vegetables. “So long as I don’t end up a beetle on my backside like yesterday.”  
  
“No promises,” Hanzo says.  
  
As his stomach growls with righteous fury, McCree smiles to himself, trotting along behind.

* * *

  
  
_Make yourself at home, cowboy._  
  
_McCree opens his eyes. The inside of a old western saloon greets him. The swinging doors bump against this backside as he sizes up the joint. He immediately picks up the musty, sun-baked odor, and a rag playing on a piano. There’s the bar, with a staircase behind it leading up to a second floor. The barkeep pays him little attention, and neither do the drunks slumped and tottering, with call girls attending to them. Laughter and music bounce through the cavernous space. It’s noisy, crude, and makes him terribly homesick._  
  
_Nearby, however, stands the ghoulish, black-shrouded man behind a blackjack table, with the red eye of his skull mask fixed on him. He shuffles a deck of cards between metal gloves, tipped with claws._  
  
_“Red. Can I call you Red?” McCree greets, tipping his hat. He seats himself before a stack of chips awaiting him. He pulls the cigarillo at his lip and tosses a few chips in the center of the table. “Deal.”_  
  
_A ten of hearts lands his way. Ace of spades in the hole._  
  
_McCree peeks at his face down card. Five of hearts. He taps for a hit._  
  
_Five of spades. He waves to stand pat._  
  
_The skull-faced man sets the deck down._  
  
_Do you enjoy games?_  
  
“From time to time.”  
  
_You must have confidence in your odds._  
  
“Not always. But that’s the fun of it.”  
  
_The skull-faced man checks his card._  
  
_Do you believe in predestination?_  
  
“Yes and no. We’re dealt in when we’re born, and we don’t get to pick the cards we start with. We don’t get to pick the cards we’re hit with, neither. We only decide if we do hit, or we stand, hoping that the dealer busts. Not to mention how much we’re bettin’ in the first place.”  
  
_Why do you play, when you know the house always wins?_  
  
_McCree considers this._  
  
“Over time, it might. We all run out of chips eventually. But the thrill is in all those other times you win, and win big. Sometimes, you walk away with more than what you started with.”  
  
_The skull-faced man pinches the corner of his face-down card._  
  
_Or sometimes, in your hubris, you bet more than you’re able to part with._  
  
_He flips it. Jack of spades._  
  
_A chorus sounds of hammers being cocked. The piano stops. Stunned, McCree spins around, seeing every soul in the bar has their pistol out, ready and aimed straight at him. He reaches for the sky. The next time he turns back to the skull-faced man, he’s nose-to-barrel with a sawed-off shotgun._  
  
_You’ll always make imperfect decisions. That’s why you lose._  
  
_McCree shrugs._  
  
“When all you got is imperfect information, all you can do is make your gamble.”  
  
_Do you believe it is fair?_  
  
“Who cares what I believe? I don’t make the rules. But I s’pose it’s only feels fair when I win. So that’s all I can try to do. To win, even when I’m lookin’ straight at the Reaper himself.”  
  
_The skull-faced man chuckles. He lowers his gun. As do the rest of the saloon patrons._  
  
_Wake up already._  
  
_It was the second dream he remembers since arriving in Gibraltar, probably. The second that seemed a little too real for his liking. As he downs another shot of whiskey, the next time he fears he will lose more than just a few hours sleep._

* * *

  
  
Hanzo tells him to buy them each a breaded, golden glob of something untranslatable and mounted on a wood skewer. McCree tests it with a nibble. His tongue touches the salty, tantalizingly sweet crust. Encouraged by the pleasant flavor, he takes a bite, detecting some kind of protein underneath the coating. McCree admits it might be the most delicious thing he's never heard of.  
  
As they walk, Hanzo holds up his own skewer and asks, “What do you think? These were my favorite growing up.”  
  
“Tasty,” he says, taking a healthy bite out of his. He chews, saying, “Like a Hanamurian corndog.”  
  
“‘Corn...dog’?”  
  
McCree swallows. He holds up the skewer and rolls it in his fingers. “It’s a lot like this, but with a little more mystery in the meat.”  
  
Hanzo chuckles. “Let us find somewhere to sit. I know just the place. Come.”  
  
McCree can’t shake the feeling like this is some kind of bizarre date. He admits he has little idea of Hanamurian courtship practices, but his Earth-trained instincts make him optimistic due to the circumstances. If his present self could tell his past he might develop a blooming crush on a Hanamurian - a member of the royal family, no less - he’d empty his every last round of Peacemaker into his own traitorous guts.  
  
Yet here and now, he unquestioningly follows this stranger’s lead in a strange land, and unto stranger parts unknown, with the strangest craving for more Hanamurian corndog. He only met Hanzo the day before. His behavior went against every instinct he cultivated with the Deadlocks, and while under Reyes’ wing, yet that fact doesn’t bother him in the slightest. Only his complete lack of bother alarms him.  
  
Hanzo splits them off from the market avenue, and they thread through a handful of side streets, dark with shade as the morning sun makes its unhurried climb. After a block or so of walking, McCree spots a pocket park, with approximately a half an acre of grass, dotted with lush pink trees and pristine stone benches. A pond fountain nearby babbles as water cascades over its upper tier, and golden fish make lazy circles underneath.  
  
Emboldened by the charming venue, McCree whips out his tablet and aims its camera at Hanzo.

"What are you-," Hanzo starts.  The tablet snaps.

"Documenting, and before you had the chance to complain," McCree says, smiling down at the photo.  

"Documenting what, exactly?  Proof that Hanamurians eat and drink as you do?"

Hanzo cranes his neck, inching closer to see the photo.  In the picture, he is captured profile, and though his sideburns and cheek are obscured by his hood, his left eye pierces the viewer with an accusing glower.  The raw power in his eye contrasts with his ragged clothes the skewer of fried meat in hand.  With the lovely pink trees as a background, the image is as intimidating as it is beguiling.  

_An earthly prince_ , McCree thinks.  He tells Hanzo, "Nope.  This one ain't for Overwatch.  No sir."

Hanzo glances at him, and McCree's breath grows short.  To his relief and disappointment, Hanzo turns away.

McCree feels the fresh air return to his lungs.  He puts the tablet away, saying, “You know, the more time we spend together, the more I’m convinced you ought to come visit Earth sometime.”

“Hn,” Hanzo answers cryptically. He seats himself on a bench. He waits for McCree to join him, the says, “Allow me to ask you something.”  
  
“Shoot.”  
  
Hanzo knits his brow.  
  
“I mean, ask away,” McCree corrects himself.  
  
Hanzo says, “Since you are acquainted with some of my unsavory past, I believe it is not improper for me to ask of yours.”  
  
McCree sighs. He loathes to ruin the moment. “The savory parts or the unsavory?”  
  
Hanzo smirks. “Whichever you please. Tell me about your life on Earth. Why should I ever imagine myself setting foot there?”  
  
“Gosh, well, where to begin,” McCree says, stalling with another bite of his skewer. “Earth is a lot like Hanamura, at least in some places. Nice weather, crowded, great food, crowded.” He inhales sharp and deep. “Air quality might not be as great. Centuries of gas-powered cars and coal-fired industrial revolution will do that. Then there’s-,”  
  
“Enough. You are boring me.”  
  
“Ah, hell,” McCree says. His throat dries as he withers beneath Hanzo’s severe glare. He clears it and says, “Alright. Let me start over. I guess the first thing you should know is I’m adopted.”  
  
“Adopted?”  
  
“You know, born to one set of parents, but raised by another.”  
  
“I see. It is rare for Hanamurian children to be raised outside of their family.”  
  
“Mom died not long after I was born. She had no other family to speak of.”  
  
“And your father?”  
  
“Long gone by that point. But my adoptive parents are angels among mortals. I haven’t spoken to them in, whew, many years. I’m ashamed to, really. Often wish I could have appreciated what I had and flown straight like they wanted.”  
  
“I take it you did not ‘fly straight’?”  
  
“Hell no. I was a damn knucklehead. Took all that love growing up for granted. Roped in with a bunch of scabs called the Deadlocks for no other reason than I wanted to throw my then-scrawny weight around. And they were the alternative in lieu of adequate extracurricular activities at school, let's put it that way.”  
  
“How old were you?”  
  
McCree snorts. “I had barely sprung my first morning wood before I was recruited. Uh, if you’ll pardon my phrasin’.”  
  
“An unfortunate waste of youth.”  
  
“I dunno about that. It’s funny. Didn't learn how to speak or long division too good, instead learned how to hot-wire a car and McGuyver myself a flashbang. I can handle myself in a scrape. Well, except for about a year ago." He raises his machine arm and flexes its fingers.  
  
"As I said.”  
  
McCree rolls his eyes and takes another bite. Chewing, he says, "Look, I’ll be the first to admit it was rough, and it weren’t glamorous. For a long time, we were mostly petty criminals, or we would be if the law cared enough to round us all up. Strung together, our rap sheets would have stretched to Hanamura and back. We were unchecked. I thought long and hard about it all these years, and it shocks me when I realize you did us a favor by tanning our asses.”  
  
“Me?”  
  
“Not you personally, but your kind. Well, your all’s omnics. Whatever. Point is, we thought we were invincible. We didn’t know shit. Say, now you tell me something.”  
  
“What's that?”  
  
“Who are those fellas behind us?” McCree thumbs over his shoulder.  
  
Stunned by the question, Hanzo looks past him over his shoulder, and the instant rise of his eyebrows gives his thoughts away.  
  
“What’s the matter?” McCree asks, twisting around for a quick glance. He discerns a couple of stern figures sitting at a bench a few meters away. All black clothing, with black wrappings about their head and face, and goggles over their eyes. More concerning were the pairs of twin daggers at either side of their hips.  
  
“They look like some shady customers,” McCree says.  
  
Hanzo murmurs, "Talon.”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“Royal agents. Enforcers."  
  
“Of course. Every big shot’s got their thugs.”  
  
“How did you-,”  
  
“Along with the guns and explosives, I also grew a pair o’ eyes on the back of my head.” McCree pulls his hat down to his brow. “Could just feel ‘em watching us.”  
  
Visibly unsettled, Hanzo says, “Perhaps we should take our leave.”  
  
McCree huffs. “Maybe we ought to go over and say ‘howdy’ instead? Usually types like that scare off easy.”  
  
“These do not.” Hanzo stands abruptly. He quickly devours his skewer as he darts off.  
  
“Whoa, there,” McCree says, catching up. “Where are we off to now?”  
  
Hanzo says, “I believe you have earned a piece of my story.  We go to where it is easier to show you.  What has become known as Dragon's Fall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SO enjoy McCree being the jack of spades. A one-eyed knave with the right eye facing up.
> 
> I also know I made up a lot of shit here that's not super canon or like, at all. So uh...I invoke the "it's an AU" defense
> 
> I will also never stop saying THANK YOU for all the feedback so far! Hope it'll be worth the wait.


	6. Chapter 6

_The split was a long time coming. Uncomfortable, but mutual._  
  
_Gabriel Reyes met his match in Seventy-Six, the ghost of Jack Morrison. The latter seemed as steadfast and resolute as the Rock of Gibraltar itself against Reyes’ relentless waves. He was the immovable object to Gabriel’s unstoppable force._  
  
_Seventy-Six preferred to be known by his old call sign, and leave his legacy as a rebel behind with Jack. Question even arose as to whether Jack was still alive, or abducted and shipped to a Hanamurian prison for all the damage he caused. While that version of Jack lived on in the people’s imaginations, here Seventy-Six was at his desk, approving layouts and looking over expense reports. When McCree thought about it, Editor-in-Chief did seem far too pedestrian a title for a man with his kind of past._  
  
_McCree couldn’t judge. Every single problem child and misfit they managed to impress and cajole into Overwatch had a past._  
  
_Like Reyes. With a problem child like him, tensions built up like volcanic gas below the surface. The symptoms became more explosive when his regular arguments with Jack began spilling out into the mess hall. One such morning, McCree had been enjoying a nice pour over with his coworkers at the time, Lena, Mei and Lucio. They paused their conversation to gawk at the scene._  
  
_“And as I have said before, Gabe, we are not in the business of drumming up sensation and feeding into baseless conspiracy theory. And that’s final.”_  
  
_“You think that’s what I’m about, Jack? You think me and my crew crank out nothin’ but yellow rags? Fuck you. At least we have self-respect. I refuse to tend to our overlord’s cocks day in and day out with the fluff pieces you rush to post.”_  
  
_“And I say you’re too obvious. Too impatient. We’re already coasting on thin ice. You’ll get all of us shut down and thrown back into prison, or worse. Then what good will that do?”_  
  
_Jack turns, casting a cold glance upon the rapt spectators. A piece of blueberry muffin falls from Mei’s lips. McCree smirks, finding it mildly amusing how much Reaper chafes in Seventy-Six’s mere presence. Jack never raises his voice, or loses his cool in any way, a trait which got under Reyes’ skin more than anything._  
  
_Finally, Reyes retorts, “You’re so thick, Jack. You don’t listen to anyone until things blow up in your face. We need to start finding leads on Hanamura itself, now. And I swear, if you assign me to one more meaningless diplomatic conference, I’m taking my crew and we’re going to do this my way. Then I’ll show you what good we can do.”_  
  
_“Enough, Gabriel. I’m tired of going around in circles with you. I want to make an effort not to repeat my mistakes. Do you?”_  
  
_Reaper crosses his arms. “What mistakes would those be?”_  
  
_McCree marvels at how Jack restrains his eyes from rolling back across the Mediterranean. Jack says, “We’ll discuss further this in my office, if you don’t mind.”_  
  
_Not long after, a compromise was struck._  
  
_It was the day Blackwatch was born._  


* * *

  
  
McCree tosses another paranoid glance over his shoulder, seeing no sign of those Talon creeps on their tail. Nonetheless, he keeps his hand near Peacekeeper as Hanzo takes them away from the intense churn of the grand avenue, and towards a serene oasis of green grass and pink blossom trees. The garden sits on a rise directly below the floating castle. In the mid-morning sun, the mammoth structure casts a considerable shadow across several blocks of Hanamura. The view must be a sight to behold from way up there, McCree thinks. He wishes he could go up to Heaven with his camera, amused by how ridiculous that statement sounds in his head.  
  
As they cross over from pavement to grassy lawn, the crowds thin, then disappear altogether. In fact, as they trudge up the hill, the strange garden ahead seems all but deserted. Blossom petals fall and whip about in the gentle breeze. The canopy of pink overhangs a thicket of bamboo and tall grass. The tree roots are covered in a soft layer of moss. The sun shines warm, but a cold shiver runs through McCree like the first chill of autumn. The vibrancy of the nature here belies something solemn and cruel.  
  
Before they approach the bamboo, Hanzo stops him with an outstretched arm. He says, “This is Dragon’s Fall. The Gardens under Heaven. It is the nearest a commoner can come to knowing the splendor and sanctity of Shimada Castle.”  
  
“Why the name?”  
  
“You shall see.”  
  
Hanzo resumes his pace. It’s deliberate and measured, as though part of a procession in a church. McCree mimics his reverence as close as he can. He plucks the cigarillo from his lips and grinds out the stub in his metal palm, then pockets the butt.  
  
The action draws a look of approval from Hanzo as the latter parts the bamboo, and McCree passes through behind him. He has little opportunity to dwell on it when sight beyond steals his breath away. Full, green bushes are covered with flowers of the most vibrant gold. Orchids perfume the air with a mild fragrance. The flowers even seem to almost bow to them as the breeze flows past. Astonished, McCree fights a desperate urge to take at least one photo, but he restrains himself.  
  
“None of this was planted. Not by Hanamurian hands,” Hanzo says.  
  
The statement fails to compute. “How’s that work?”  
  
“Magic.”  
  
“Okay, now you’re jus’ pulling my leg.”  
  
“I have no other means to describe it. Through here.”  
  
Hanzo pushes through another dense cropping of bamboo, and they enter a vast circle of wildflowers. Yet in the very center, like a bullseye on a dartboard, there is a barren patch of earth. McCree looks up; there, Heaven hangs in the air directly above.  
  
He looks over to Hanzo, whose head is bowed deep. The latter says, “I threw him down from Heaven. This the very spot where he landed. Here. Where a dragon fell.”  
  
McCree remains silent, listening intently as Hanzo begins a slow circuit around the patch. He continues, gesturing to the center. “Only this circle of dead earth remains as proof. No grass nor tree will take root.”  
  
“If this is where he died, then where’s the grave? Why ain’t no one else here?” McCree asks.  
  
“Many people believe he transformed into a dragon himself, or his spirit absorbed back into the nature here.” He turns, his hand outstretched to the gardens. “But all believe this land is cursed. You see, no one planted these flowers. This bamboo, the ring of trees. It all sprouted up on its own around his broken body.”  
  
“You don’t seem much afraid,” McCree says.  
  
“I have no fear of this place. Perhaps because I bear a curse as well.” Hanzo glances to him, remarking, “After all this, you do not seem to be afraid, either.”  
  
“Well, I can attest this place gives me the willies. Uh, no offense. Just caught a bad air when we got near the place.”  
  
“I don’t mean the location. I mean about what I did to my brother.”  
  
McCree swallows hard. “Well, partner, I guess that’s because in a way, I can identify. You ain’t the only person here with blood on their hands. With a past you can’t just up and walk away from.”  
  
“Then you are not afraid of me?”  
  
“Should I be?”  
  
“Hm,” Hanzo utters. “Most people are.”  
  
The loneliness pouring from his statement does not inspire fear. It only sickens McCree with pity. Before the pregnant pause stretches into an abyss, he changes course, saying, “So, what happened? To Genji, I mean.”  
  
“As for Genji, his body was removed, and buried alongside our ancestors.” He nods his chin toward the largest of the snow-capped mountains in the distance. “At Shambali Monastery, where the dead, and our long history, are tended to by omnic monks.” He wipes his damp cheeks with his sleeve.  
  
“Hey, if this is too much for you, we can go back to eating foods I can’t pronounce the names of.”  
  
Hanzo smiles. A full-on, shit-eating grin, and it about sends McCree into cardiac arrest with how dazzling and abrupt it is. “If you are nothing else, at least you are funny, Earth man,” he says. “But I’m afraid now is your turn.”  
  
“My turn?”  
  
“For another piece of your puzzle.”  
  
“Ah,” McCree starts, putting his gloved hand to his chin. “So that’s how this is going to work?”  
  
“Until I say otherwise. But not here. Come, you must try Hanamurian tea. There is a place I used to visit as a young man.”  
  
McCree shifts his weight, and the pads of his feet complain. “As long as there’s a place to sit for a spell. My dogs are barkin’.”  
  
“Your dogs?” Hanzo repeats, glancing down to McCree’s boots. “You call your feet ‘dogs’?”  
  
“Just a figure o’ speech. Best not to think about them too hard.”  
  
“I am learning this. Slowly, but surely.”  
  
\---------------  
  
_You wanted to see me, sir?_  
  
_McCree. Yes. Have a seat._  
  
_That article about kids starting their own omnic-fighting rings? Wasn’t my idea, I swear. The article, I mean._  
  
_Relax. You’re not in any trouble._  
  
_Really? Then what can I do for the big man in charge?_  
  
_Glad to know you still see me as that way. I wanted to talk about Reyes. Pick your brain._  
  
_Sorry, after a few hard knocks, there ain’t much left up there to pick, big man. But what you want to know?_  
  
_I’m troubled by recent communications we’ve intercepted between here and Dorado. I can only think of one reason why anyone might make these contacts._  
  
_You thinkin’ Los Muertos?_  
  
_Yes, and their network of cyber criminals. These are not the methods I want associated with Overwatch._  
  
_Then why are you questioning me? Sounds like you already suspect Gabe. Why not ask him?_  
  
_I plan to. I just...I want to see the bigger picture here. I allowed him to form Blackwatch, with the explicit promise that it remain discreet and invisible. Yet no matter how much I give, that he wants to push it. I don’t understand why._  
  
_Well, since you’re lookin’ for my humblest opinion, I don’t think it’s about you. It’s just who the fella is. He’s a pusher. He’ll test limits to as far as they’ll go, and take every advantage for all that it’s worth._  
  
_Hadn’t thought of it like that. I suppose that’s what makes him valuable._  
  
_Flip side is that he’s a sore loser. He can’t stand that Hanamura came down and broke us apart like a cheap pinata. So now Blackwatch is something of a crusade for him, I think._  
  
_I see._  
  
_So you gotta take the good with the bad. Like you, for instance._  
  
_Me?_  
  
_Um, if you sure I won’t be out of line._  
  
_Permission to speak freely. What bad do you take from me?_  
  
_Well, I just think ol’ Gabe’s got a point when he says you’re too cautious, and move too slow. You don’t like unmeasured risk, I respect that. But sometimes, you gotta seize opportunity before it disappears. Or create it yourself. Otherwise, what the hell are we even doin’ here?_  
  
_Thank you, Jesse. For your candor._  
  
_It’s the best thing I got going for me. And the bad? Well, you can read it on my belt._  
  
_And it’s the reason you’re in Blackwatch._  
  
_Not because Gabe steamrolled me?_  
  
_You’re dismissed._  
  
_Yes, sir._  
  
  
\------------  
  
“So, you’ll learn not to think so hard about my choice o’ words, and I’ll learn not to think too hard about what you recommend I put in my mouth.”  
  
That phrase came out hilarious to his ears, but Hanzo, oblivious as ever, sips on his cup of tea without having registered the innuendo. McCree makes a half-hearted try to conceal his disappointment, and instead makes a note of subtlety being a fool’s errand with Hanzo.  
  
But as he looks down at his cup of tea, he breaks his word. He’s thinking about it. Hard. This ‘tea’ has a medicinal, sassafrass-like scent, and a swirl of dull orange that reminds him of old moldy orange rinds. The whole of it seems as vile and dangerous as the sake Hanzo inflicted on him the day before. His throat still feels a tinge sore from the experience.  
  
“Well?” Hanzo prompts, looking over the brim of his cup. McCree suspects he is hiding a wry smile.  
  
He can’t lose face like this. He pulls the cigarillo from his lip and swallows down a twist of nausea. Holding his breath, he touches his lips to the mug. He tilts it gently, so that only a few molecules of the steaming liquid enter his mouth.  
  
He’s stunned-- not because of how foul it tastes, but the exact opposite. Bravely, he takes a slurp. Complex notes of spice, citrus, and something like molasses coat his tongue, with immediate effects on his mood. Every knot in his feet and back come loose, and the ache in his joints eases. In fact, he feels about five years younger. It’s marvelous, and he takes another eager gulp.  
  
Hanzo chuckles in his seat across from him. The cafe he brought them to is old, and McCree assumes its heyday contemporary with the Horus Inn. While the lighting, flooring, and point of sale had kept up with the times, the wooden bones of its scaffolding and musty odor transport him straight back to the old western bed and breakfast he grew up in. He and Hanzo recline in creaky wooden rocking chairs outside the shop like a couple of old biddies, but McCree could not be more at ease.  
  
He puts the cigarillo back to his lip. Eddies of smoke swirl around its glowing tip. He only met Hanzo yesterday. _Yesterday._ Yet somehow, he might have believed they’d been spending time like this for decades.  
  
“Incredible. That you didn’t try to poison me again, that is,” McCree says, raising his cup to him. “I can see why you take a shine to this stuff.”  
  
“I am pleased to know that it agrees with the Earth palate.”  
  
“More than that. My whole body feels like a cloud.”  
  
“Hm,” Hanzo hums. “What did you think when our people first arrived on your planet?”  
  
He asks just as McCree puts another sip to his mouth. He sputters when he hears it, ripping the cup away. “Sheesh. Here I was hoping we’d enjoy the moment a little longer.”  
  
“Do not stall. Entertain me.”  
  
“Well, alright then, bossy boots,” McCree says, wetting his lips. “Let’s see. As you know, I was mixed up with the Deadlock crew at the time. We thought nothin’ could rattle us bad boys.”  
  
“So you said.”  
  
"Right, but then you fellas came down from the sky. I’d just lit up a nice stogie for my thirtieth birthday. Let me tell you, we were as fuckin' spooked as cattle in a thunderstorm. We thought we were alone in the universe, then suddenly," he gestures an explosion from his forehead, whistling. "Our tiny little beans were blown a mile high. It was like we were over here folding paper airplanes compared to your starships.”  
  
Another sip, and the heady buzz loosens his tongue even further. “The meaning of our existence changed overnight. Most of the fellas and ladies in Deadlock couldn't deal. When you all started havin' talks and makin' deals with our governments, they said 'uh-uh, not in our backyard.' A part of me wanted to wait and see. I mean, this was first contact for chrissakes. But I was too close to the tornado and got sucked right in." He laughs to himself. "These were my idea of friends at the time. I had nowhere else I wanted to go. So I went along when we went from a band of thugs to a resistance cell. We were busier than an anthill with running weapons and supplies to other cells throughout the continent."  
  
“Is this how you were maimed?”  
  
“Eventually, after years of fightin’, of prayin’ for the David to your Goliath,” McCree says. “Nearly bit the dust. Friend of a friend snatched me back from the gates of Hell. She’d been bringing folks out of the grave on her own, but for scientists like her, you guys were like Christmas come early. It’s thanks to someone up here that she had this to plug into me.” He points to his right eye.  
  
Hanzo averts his gaze, taking another sip. “I am sorry you suffered.”  
  
"Nah, rotten fools like me deserved it. We got a bad habit of wantin' to kill what we don't understand. Ain’t sure why Lady Fortuna decided to spare me, but maybe it’s because it’s a bad habit I’d like to break. It’s much of why my current line of work appeals to me. Serve some proper justice for a change instead of just waitin’ around for when my number’s up."  
  
Hanzo nods. "You wish to learn, so you no longer fear."  
  
McCree alights, slapping his knee. "Bang on, mi amigo."  
  
"What are these words that you use? Our translators are inadequate."  
  
"What, ‘amigo’? It's from a language called Spanish. Español. Beautiful tongue, and helpful to have a working vocabulary around where I'm from. It means ‘friend’."  
  
“Friend?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You consider me your...amigo?” Hanzo says, trying it out.  
  
“Sure. Why not?”  
  
Hanzo looks away, appearing to think on this. Suddenly, Hanzo turns back, catching him square in the eye. “Your friend of a friend. Did she mention where she got her hands on such a device?”  
  
McCree shakes off the whiplash enough to say, “What, you mean my dead eye?”  
  
Hanzo nods his chin.  
  
“Said someone gave it to her. Wouldn’t say who it was. But they set me up on this trip. Hopefully, I’ll get to meet them sometime.”  
  
“Really,” Hanzo says, with some incredulity, and what McCree thinks is a smidge of disappointment.  
  
“Say, you look like you’ve got somethin’ on your mind,” McCree observes.  
  
Hanzo sighs. “McCree, I believe it is time I also revealed the truth about what I know, as you had done for me this morning.”  
  
McCree shifts, turning to face Hanzo squarely.  
  
Hanzo nods his chin to his right eye. “That eye you have.”  
  
“Yeah? What about it?”  
  
“It’s the reason I have spent my time with you. I do not believe that eye of yours is not an ordinary omnic prosthesis. I must know how and why it ended up in an alien from Earth.”  
  
The statement strikes a nerve within McCree. “Whoa there, wait a hot minute. You’re tellin’ me you got breakfast with me, showed me around town, acted all nice and sat here pretending to care about my shit, just so you could figure out what the hell is lodged in my head?”  
  
“Precisely. However, in the short time we have spent I have come to admire your sincere and plain-spoken character, so I regret if I had given you a different impression.”  
  
“Well, at least you told me now before I got real invested in that impression,” McCree says, but it hurts. He doesn’t know why. He’s felt the sting of rejection before, but this hurts something fierce. He ducks his chin and gives Hanzo a shrug with his hands. “So it weren’t my suave charm nor good looks that persuaded you. Had to be this doggone thing in my skull. Guess I’ll have to take it.”  
  
Hanzo hesitates.  
  
“You about to drive the knife in a little further?” McCree says, all levity drained from his voice.  
  
Hanzo’s jaw sets. “Perhaps you will understand my perspective when I say that your eye is the same as ours.”  
  
“Ours? Wait,” McCree flinches, and catches his cup just before it slips out of his grasp. His voice wavers, “The Shimada?”  
  
Hanzo nods.  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
McCree’s gaze falls to the pool of liquid in his cup. “Can’t be. Mine are dead and gray. Yours are the most beautiful blue I ever did see.”  
  
Hanzo’s silence prompts McCree to think about what just slipped. He sighs. He cares little about his embarrassment at the moment. He glances up to see Hanzo take another sip of tea, tearing those blue eyes away.  
  
“The implants are colorless before they are awakened. They are how Genji’s appeared before...” Hanzo hangs his head.  
  
“Still not quite pickin' all this up. You saying _your_ eyes are artificial, too? Well, I suppose that figures.”  
  
“It has been tradition throughout the Shimada dynasty for heirs, when they come of age, to have their natural eyes removed and replaced with enchanted implants. Though we call the process something a bit more evocative of the spiritual aspect. The Vision Journey.”  
  
McCree leans forward. “What are the eyes supposed to represent?”  
  
“They are more than symbols. They can bestow tremendous power, should the individual awaken them. You see, the implants are forged with a substance we call dragonstone. The essence of the stone will visit you in dreams and in nightmares. Through them, it will test whether you are worthy. Should you earn its power, it is called the awakening. Should you fail, then it is the blinding. The stone will snuff out, and your sight with it.”  
  
“A measure of character,” McCree says. “Or high-stakes gambling.”  
  
“Tell me, have you been visited by the stone in your dreams? Have you seen its dragon? That is the spirit of the stone.”  
  
He swallows thickly. He thinks of the skull-faced man. He doubts this could be real, and his pulse races at the implications.  
  
“Your reaction is telling,” Hanzo observes.  
  
McCree admits, “I’ve had dreams. Not so sure about a dragon, but I don’t think it’s coincidence.”  
  
“Hn. As I thought.” Hanzo reclines, his brow severe with thought. “What color?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“What is the prominent color of your dreams?”  
  
“Red. Some black, but mostly red. Why?”  
  
A sudden clatter and crash of porcelain jolts McCree. He instinctively clutches at his cup, but finds it still intact. It is not his, but Hanzo’s that has split into pieces on the ground. Fright and confusion mar Hanzo’s face, and McCree mirrors his panic.  
  
“Lord, if that ain’t a look. You look like you seen the face of death,” McCree tells him.  
  
“The red dragonstone,” Hanzo mutters in a daze. “This cannot be. You cannot be telling the truth!”  
  
“Why in the hell would I lie?”  
  
An omnic staff member, drawn over by the commotion, bows to them. “Excuse me, is everything alright?” it asks, its square mouth lighting up with feminine speech.  
  
McCree shifts gears a shave quicker than Hanzo, so he throws her a sugary smile and says, “Yes, just had an accident. Can’t take him anywhere. I’m deeply sorry, ma’am. I’ll cover the replacement cost for him.”  
  
“It is no trouble, sir, and that will not be necessary, Ms. Shimada,” The omnic stoops to clean up the shards littering the ground.  
  
Meanwhile, Hanzo bolts to his feet. “It is time we took our leave.”  
  
“Where we off to, now?”  
  
“Come back with me to the Drunken Dragon. We will discuss this further there.” Hanzo rubs his chin, his expression far off.  
  
“Uh, okay. You gonna be alright?”  
  
Hanzo replaces the hood over his head. “Me? Certainly. You? Let’s just say your article is the least of your worries now, Earth man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and feedback.
> 
> Also want to credit/mention Bad Habits 1 and 2 by Gavin Luke for helping me tap my foot while writing McCree


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE AND PACKED CHAPTER INC!
> 
> I'm posting a big chunk b/c I may not get a chance to post more until well into next week (sorry!)
> 
> And as a courtesy **WARNING:** reference to suicide in this next bit.

_The Panorama diner. He inhales the pervasive smell of old grease and cigar smoke. It comforts him down to his soul. A plate of rubber eggs and soggy bacon, with a piping hot mug of boiled dirt await his ravenous belly._  
  
_A cigarillo hangs off his lip as he gazes out across the spectacular red canyon just outside. It’s all perfect._  
  
_He lifts his mug, and it’s then he realizes he’s not alone. The skull-faced man sits just across the booth from him._  
  
_Hi._  
  
“You again? Up for another round o’ cards?”  
  
_I have a better idea today._  
  
_The skull-faced man tilts to glance out the window. McCree follows, quirking a brow. There, carved into the red rock, he spots the towering, poised visage of a stone lady. In her left hand, she carries a set of weighing scales. In her right, a sword. Wrapped about her head is a blindfold._  
  
"Now what?" _McCree asks._  
  
_A most fascinating figure I have plucked from your mind._  
  
"Lady Justice?" McCree says.  
  
_Indeed._  
  
“What’s she got to do with anythin’?”  
  
_Describe her._  
  
“Well, she’s got the scales in her left hand, signifying her measure of the weight of evidence. In her right, the sword, that’s her judgment, sharp and swift. Finally, she’s got the blindfold to represent her impartiality.”  
  
_Fascinating._  
  
“Sure.” _He pulls away the cigarillo and lifts the mug of coffee to his lips._  
  
_The ghoul reaches out and touches him at his left wrist. McCree rips it away when suddenly, and drops the mug. At the point of contact, his flesh transforms into a dense and heavy limb of iron. The transformation stops at his elbow, but he strains as he tries to keep it raised. He fails as his strength gives, and the arm falls across his thigh._  
  
_It hurts. The arm seems to grow denser and denser with every passing second. He struggles to breathe as it threatens to tear his shoulder from its socket, and crush the thigh it rests on._  
  
_He takes it by the wrist. Sweat breaks across his brow, and with a burst of strength hurls it off of his leg with a grunt, the cigarillo tumbling from his mouth as he gasps in relief. A sharp clang resounds as it strikes the fiberglass seat beside him. His hat slips. Under its brim, he looks between the skull-masked man leaning over the table with fingers folded, and the statue looming yonder._  
  
"What...the hell are you doing?" _McCree says, gasping._  
  
_Tell me, how can you even move? How does one function with so much weight to bear? The memories, the responsibility, the guilt. The weight must be so heavy for you._  
  
"Memory...guilt? I don't understand this- ugh!"  
  
_He strains to lift himself again, but he might as well have been straining against the weight of a wrecking ball. Next, to his horror, the skull-faced man touches his eyes with clawed thumbs. They sear closed, ripping a holler of pain from McCree’s throat._  
  
_Are you impartial? If you are not willing to learn, then can you truly understand what is in front of you? Perhaps you don’t deserve to see. Now, what is left? Oh._  
  
_McCree tears Peacemaker from its holster. He aims and shoots wildly. He fires and fires, six rounds under the table until it clicks empty. The ghoul tilts his head, unfazed._  
  
_Is that not the instrument of your anger? Do you not want revenge against all who have wronged you, who have hurt you?_  
  
_A coat of rust and grime grows across the metal, and gunk up the moving parts. The ghoul chuckles, then howls with laughter._  
  
_Burdened, blind, impotent. How can anyone serve justice like this?_  
  
“Stop,” _McCree begs._ “Stop this.”  
  
_Remain like this for too long, and it'll stay this way._  
  
_The skull-faced man slides out of the booth to make for the exit, patting McCree on the shoulder as he does so._  
  
_Enjoy your breakfast._  
  
“You hold on there,” _McCree says, sneering._ “We ain’t finished.”  
  
_The footsteps grow fainter._  
  
“You got it all wrong. Every fuckin’ bit.”  
  
_At that, the footsteps stop._  
  
_McCree turns to his shoulder, saying,_ "It ain't the truth that's heavy. It's keepin' it buried that weighs you down. The truth itself is feather light."  
  
"Secondly, Peacekeeper ain’t no instrument of anger. I ain’t never fired her without good reason. She is my judgment, and I can’t take that back easy once I give it.”  
  
"Lastly, my blindness don't represent my unwillingness to learn, but my own fool ignorance. I can only hope to I’ll see things clearer today than I did yesterday.”  
  
_Suddenly, his heavy, iron arm sheds its dense iron character, and returns to his normal prosthesis, where he can move it about freely. He grins, rising from the booth to his feet. The rust and grime of decay dissolve and crumble away on Peacemaker, leaving its polished and gleaming metal behind. The choking smolder in his eyes blows away like smoke._  
  
“Now we done,” _McCree says, tipping his hat._  
  
_He stumbles to the washroom in the middle of the night. He splashes cool water against his face, then rotates the wrist of his mechanical arm. Compared to his right, never noticed before just how much heavier it feels._  


* * *

  
  
Hanzo sets a harried pace. The orange of the waning daylight glints off the crystal towers forming the canyon in which they pass. McCree chews on his cigarillo, and sets his own hat low on his brow, his focus resting on the back of Hanzo’s head and broad shoulders. His mind wanders, questioning what exactly Dr. Ziegler put in him, and apprehension turning his guts like taffy. Whether he was rendered a vegetable or not, a glass eye might not have been so bad.  
  
Suddenly, Hanzo halts, and McCree nearly collides with him. “What the-,”  
  
“Talon,” Hanzo says.  
  
McCree threads his thumbs through his belt loops as two figures dressed in black wrappings approach. He comes around to stand next to Hanzo, sizing up the agents, a male and a female. Twin daggers at their sides glint. They come to a halt before them, glancing between McCree and Hanzo. To Hanzo, the male agent says, “Disgraced prince.”  
  
“Stand aside. We do not have any business with you,” Hanzo growls.  
  
“You are correct. We do not have any business with you.”  
  
Hanzo’s brow twitches. “Then stand aside,” he repeats.  
  
The agent turns to McCree. He says, “Instead, we have observed your Earth companion, and we believe he has something of interest to us. He will submit to questioning.”  
  
Hanzo chuckles. He crosses his arms and raises his chin. “He has nothing.”  
  
“Now hold up just a minute-,” McCree starts.  
  
“He knows nothing,” Hanzo continues over him.  
  
“Irrelevant. As is your presence, fallen prince.”  
  
McCree tenses, rubbed raw by the agents’ terse attitude, and on Hanzo’s behalf. But before he can get a word in edgewise, Hanzo says cooly, “We have no time for the manipulative games of my father. Please relay to his Lordship our sincerest regrets. Will that be all?”  
  
The agent retorts, “You will be silent. Even if you are his son, you do not command us.”  
  
McCree hears quite enough. He puffs the cigarillo and makes heavy steps forward, his spurs jingling. Hanzo hisses his name, but McCree steps in close to one of the agents and says, “Alright, fellas. You listen here. My associate here just said we can’t help you, and I have to back him up on that.” He gets in close, right in the agent’s face. “Why don’t you leave the couple of us old fogies to their evening stroll, and this don’t have to get ugly.”  
  
The agent looks at him, then to Hanzo. “Fitting that the disgraced dragon consorts with filthy Earth rats now.” Even when obscured under the agent’s goggles, McCree’ can feel the agent’s scrutiny at his right eye. McCree’s getting mighty used to it being under the microscope by now.  
  
Predictably, the agent says, “You will tell us what this is.”  
  
“What do you think, genius? It’s my eye.”  
  
“Fool.” The agent nods to his partner. Suddenly, the second agent hooks her leg behind his knee and hurls him to the ground onto his back. He grunts as the force of the fall knocks the wind out of him, the cigarillo almost tumbling from the edge of his lip. In the next instant, the same agent hunches over him with her fingers at his right eye, prying open the lid.  
  
"Unhand him!" Hanzo warns with a snarl. When the agents ignore him, Hanzo pulls the bow around from his back.  
  
The first agent snorts with amusement. He says, "Look at this. Our treatment of this lowlife _offends_ you, doesn’t it? You are truly a disgrace to your clan. The throne, and your own heartbroken father deserves your apathy, yet the insignificant life of this alien does not? His Lordship showed you undue mercy in sparing you, even if you are his son. Do not test it.”  
  
"I assure you, my father has no heart within him to break. He does not weep for me. Now, for the final time, _unhand_ him," he demands, notching an arrow. Hanzo’s eyes flare and flicker like a pair of blue braziers.  
  
The murmur of passing bystanders swells, their attention drawn to the escalating altercation. "Hey, easy," the second agent says, her knee pressing into McCree’s ribcage. "We're just curious about what's in your Earth friend's head." She hovers closer over McCree says to him, "Where'd you get a shiny thing like that, monkey?"  
  
"Online auction," McCree says, cheeky. "Thought a killer bod mod like this might improve my love life."  
  
"The truth, mongrel. Or maybe it would be easier to just carve it out?" She brandishes one of her short daggers and stops its point mere centimeters from his eye.  
  
The first enforcer says, “An excellent idea. It is an insult to have a lesser being walking around Hanamura with such a sophisticated device. Take his arm, too.”  
  
It's then that McCree draws Peacemaker, jabbing the barrel deep into his assailant's gut. "You're welcome to try."  
  
The agent flinches, rearing back from the hard metal pressing into her side. Seizing the opening, McCree knees her with as much force as he can muster. The agent tumbles backward, and McCree leaps to his feet. He points Peacemaker at the agents as each brandish their daggers. Hanzo, for his part, draws back his arrow. Yelps and hollers bubble up from the growing crowd of spectators. Despite the advantage of firepower, McCree loathes the idea of bloodshed in broad daylight, and with an audience. He says, "Hanzo."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Get ready to run."  
  
"Pardo-,"  
  
In a split-second motion, McCree activates and tosses out a flashbang at the agents, lifting his serape to cover his face. The grenade bursts with blinding light and an an ear-splitting pop. The agents stagger and wobble, and their arms fly up to cross over their faces.  
  
"C'mon!" McCree says to Hanzo.  
  
The arrow in Hanzo’s hand clatters to the ground. Hanzo rubs his eyes, somewhat stunned as well. With little other choice, McCree grabs him by the wrist and dashes with him out of the park and back onto the streets.  
  
"Release me!" Hanzo, panting, turns his wrist out of McCree's grasp. Blinking rapidly, he says, “You could have warned me!”  
  
McCree tosses over his shoulder. "You're welcome."  
  
"I can handle them. You needn't insert yourself in the middle of a misunderstanding."  
  
"Misunderstanding? Seems you have a talent for understatement!”  
  
Suddenly, the two Talon enforcers drop to the ground ahead of them, cutting them off. McCree wonders whether they are the same two as before, or whether they represent the backup. Nonetheless, he and Hanzo slide to a halt when the daggers of their assailants glint in the sun. Citizens shriek and flee the street. McCree stares them down, and as the enforcers lunge with their daggers, he reaches for another flashbang.  
  
He does not get the chance to toss one. Blue pins of light bounce up from the pavement, riddling their assailants with holes. Blood spurts, and both drop cold. McCree spins to see Hanzo lowering his bow.  
  
“You just turn them into Swiss cheese?”  
  
“I have stopped them.”  
  
“Why, for God’s sake?”  
  
“Talon are famous for their dogged pursuits. They would track us down until we tire, then they would kill you.”  
  
“Shit. I reckon if they weren’t going to before, they definitely will now!”  
  
He takes another hard look at the corpses. The scent of blood enters his nostrils. Suddenly, McCree flinches as his right eye seizes. His gloved hand flies to cover it as its iris opens and shuts erratically. A reddish color filters his vision. “Hanzo,” he begs.  
  
A hand at his shoulder steadies him. Hanzo’s voice shakes when he says, “Quickly. We must get you to safety.”  
  
His nerves shot, he feels little choice but to follow as Hanzo guides him off the street into a deserted alleyway. Out of his human eye, McCree spots two more agents crawl out from spaces unknown, as though pinched off from the pool of shadows. They waste no time leaping for the kill with daggers raised.  
  
“When in Hanamura,” McCree says. He drops the gloved hand from his eye and, in a deft flick of his wrist, unholsters Peacemaker and pops off two rounds, his metal fingers flying over the revolver’s hammer. Like before, the agents fall instantly.  
  
“Impressive,” Hanzo says with a quirk of his brow.  
  
McCree tips his hat. “One wasted youth, at your service.”  
  
At the sight of the slain agents, his eye seizes again. He feels its gears wrench and spin. The red color of his vision deepens. He doubles over, overcome by the strange sensations.  
  
“Jesse!” Hanzo calls. “We must flee!”  
  
McCree wills his legs to stand, and then stagger forward down the alleyway. Sure as rain, however, an outfit of Talon agents appear at the end of the alleyway. He lifts his chin just enough to count at least five them. “What’s with these guys?”  
  
“Talon can appear anywhere, and everywhere,” Hanzo says, his grim tone doing little for McCree’s flagging spirits.  
  
“Then what do we do? I reckon those fellows mean to kill me now.”  
  
“They will not.”  
  
“How can you be so sure?”  
  
With daggers out, the agents dash for them like blurs of shadow. One even dashes along the side of the wall.  
  
With a tinge of defiance, Hanzo states, “I will not let them.”  
  
His heart drops when Hanzo shuts his eyes, and his jaw sets, and his lip twitches with fury. When next Hanzo opens his eyes, they are as blue as the deep sea, their misty emissions turned flowing white like roiling steam, or perhaps seafoam on breakers.  
  
“What are you-,” McCree starts.  
  
His train of thought derails when In a fluid motion, Hanzo fetches and notches an arrow, turns to their pursuers, and draws the arrow back. He takes a deep breath.  
  
“ _Ryuu ga waga teki wo kurau!_ ”  
  
The words thunder from Hanzo’s lips as the bowstring thrums, and the arrow flies. A terrible storm of magic swirls around the shaft, then bursts into two giant, ghostly blue dragons. They spiral down the alleyway, their maws wide. The spectres pass through their unfortunate pursuers, who cry out in terror as the clothes, skin, and muscle tear from their bodies and burn up like ashes.  
  
The cigarillo at McCree’s lip drops. Remembering himself, his hands fly to his pocket and fumbles with the tablet there. Yet by the time he extracts and aims the camera, the dragons have faded back into whatever netherworld they emerged from. All that remains are the stripped corpses of the Talon agents.  
  
“Holy shit,” McCree breathes, and finding it difficult to do so as his mind struggles to process what he just witnessed. “Holy _Ghost_ , save me!”  
  
Hanzo’s strong hand returns to his shoulder, and staves off his rising panic. “Close your eyes,” he tells him.  
  
McCree obeys, but it is no use. The scent of blood fills up his sinuses, and it strums a chord within him, and a surge of exhilaration electrifies his skin. He gasps at the overwhelming sensation. Hanzo’s hand at his wrist yanks him forward. His tight grip is the only sensation keeping him tethered to the ground.

* * *

  
  
_Thanks for making time to see me, Doc._  
  
_It’s no trouble at all. Have a seat._  
  
_Your waitin’ list must be a mile long._  
  
_Well, you are a special case. I am curious now that some time has passed since the operation. How are your prostheses holding up? Do you have any pain?_  
  
_Physically, I'm spinning like a top. Not even itchy anymore._  
  
_But?_  
  
_But this implant. This thing you put in my head. I think it's tryin’ to make me lose my last handful o’ marbles._  
  
_What are you experiencing?_  
  
_You said this here thing replaced some of my brain along with my peeper. More than that, I think it’s jacked into my head._  
  
_What makes you say that?_  
  
_Dreams. Strangest dreams. Like someone inside this thing is testing me._  
  
_I’m not seeing anything different about it from the post-op. You’re sure it’s not a reaction to your trauma?_  
  
_Oh Lord, doc. Don’t say it._  
  
_Recurring nightmares could be a sign of post-traumatic stress. I can refer you to an excellent counselor._  
  
_Nope, no siree. I got enough combat fatigue to fill up two lifetimes. It ain’t that._  
  
_But you did almost die. In fact, from a clinical perspective you did die for a few minutes on my table._  
  
_I’m tellin’ you, it ain’t that. This is different. It’s too real. I can’t take it no more._  
  
_If it’s that bad, then you need help, Jesse. But I am not qualified to give you the kind of help you need._  
  
_Then tell me who is, already. Tell me who gave you this thing in my head, and why._  
  
_As I have said before, I cannot divulge that information._  
  
_Come on, doc. Have some fuckin’ mercy. Please, I'm beggin' you._  
  
_I’m afraid my answer is still no, as much as I wish I could._  
  
_Why not? Whose hide is at stake? Whatever business y’all are into, I don’t care a continental. Just tell me a name, and I’ll find a way to track ‘em down._  
  
_I’m sorry, Jesse._  
  
_Jesus, you’re killin’ me here. I thought ya’ll got an oath about doin’ no harm? You can’t look at this thing straight and tell me a piece of Hanamurian tech might not be capable of scrambling a brain it wasn’t intended for._  
  
_No, I can’t. I can’t say for certain that the implant is not affecting you, just as you cannot be certain that it is. And it’s not only about you._  
  
_Look, okay. I’m sensitive if you’re in awful tight spot here. How ‘bout this? You at least ask them about it, and let me know what they say? If it ain’t nothin’, then I'll take your goddamn referral._  
  
_I cannot make you any promises. We are only in touch when they come to Earth, and I have not seen them since they delivered that implant. It’s a little worrisome, to tell you the truth. You should take my referral, anyway, in the meantime._  
  
_Thanks, but no thanks. Rather spend that money on my bar tab. You have yourself a nice day._  
  
_Jesse._  
  
_What?_  
  
_Take care of yourself._

* * *

  
  
The red filter fades. McCree’s frantic pulse calms as they distance themselves from the scene of the crime, and he releases Hanzo as he matches his companion’s stride. His pulse, however, still hammers in his ears, and goosebumps prickle his skin. “Are they gone?” he asks.  
  
Hanzo says, “It seems we have shaken them off for now. I suspect that I given them some pause should they think to continue their pursuit. This way.”  
  
They turn a corner. “Thank you,” McCree says.  
  
Hanzo grunts. “Do not thank me. It gladdens me to deny them their victory. But now it is clear that they were not following me, but you, and with the same interest that I have. I must now insist that you cut your visit to Hanamura short.”  
  
“No way Jose, amigo. I gotta know what this thing is.” He points to his right eye. “And I think you’re the one to tell me.”  
  
“It is not a suggestion. Just look at you.” He shakes his head. “It is better for me to deal with Talon than for a clueless alien. And based on your reaction to the bodies, it is as I feared. The thirst of the red dragon stirs within you.”  
  
“Uh-uh. Not after all that. You had plenty of opportunity to hightail it, but you didn’t. You stuck your neck out for me.”

“I did no such thing.”  
  
McCree claps Hanzo on the shoulder, stopping and pulling him around. “Like hell you did. Then what do you call that dragon shit back there, and that time at the bar? Way I see it, my debt’s mounting by the day. And I ain’t about to take out a debt I can’t find a way to reimburse.”  
  
“There is no debt,” Hanzo insists, waving him off.  
  
“Wait, Hanzo.”  
  
Hanzo stops. McCree comes around to face him. He looks at him square, on the verge of losing it if not for the frothing blue soothing his nerves. “Then at least tell me what it is I’m dealing with. This, this _thing_ has been screwin’ with my mind ever since I woke up from my dirt nap back on Earth. Now I’m here, where my answers are, and you’re the best lead I got. _Please._ I’ve got to know what’s been turning me inside out!”  
  
Hanzo’s expression falls, downcast. “I believe it is better that such power remain dormant, and far away from here.”  
  
Hanzo takes a step forward, but McCree stops him with a hand. “That’s just it. It ain’t dormant. You know what’s in my head. I know that you know what it’s like. If you’re as honorable a sort as I think you are, then you can’t deny a friend’s honest-to-God plea.”  
  
“Friend,” Hanzo repeats. McCree fights the urge to keep selling while Hanzo scans him, his frown severe. “It is against my better judgment, but make no mistake. It is only because I pity you. Once you understand, then you will agree to leave Hanamura without question.”  
  
“Fair enough.” His chest tightens.  
  
The sky darkens to a mild shade of orange by the time they arrive back at the mouth of the Drunken Dragon. McCree waves to the hoglike barkeep, who returns it with a dismissive grunt. Instead of the bar counter, however, Hanzo leads them to a doorway off to the side of it and pushes aside the curtain there. They pass by a stockroom, as well as a suffocating whiff of ammonia and mildew from the employee washroom.  
  
Hanzo turns a corner, and pushes aside another pair of dark curtains. McCree slips through with him and into a cramped, windowless room. It takes all of two seconds to scan the space, containing a ratty, collapsed mattress on the floor, a miniature fridge in the corner, a hot plate in the center with a cast iron pot, and a rickety wooden chair. Nothing else, not even a cheap picture on any of its discolored walls.  
  
“Hanzo, don’t tell me…” McCree starts, frowning at the squalor.  
  
“Yes. I live here,” he says matter-of-factly, leaning his bow against a wall and stripping off his quiver. “Would you like some more tea? It is not of the same quality, however.”  
  
“Actually, I could use something a little more stiff.”  
  
“Hn,” Hanzo says with a nod. He goes to the fridge and extracts two longnecks.  
  
“That’ll do,” McCree says, presuming beer. He pries the cap off with a thumb and takes a cautionary sip. It is, in fact, beer. Actual, normal, fizzy beer, and with that revelation he takes a long swig. He gasps with satisfaction and wipes his lips with the back of his gloved hand.  
  
“Have a seat,” Hanzo says, crouching and seating himself onto the mattress.  
  
McCree knows he means the chair, but whether it’s the hit of alcohol or the lingering adrenaline in his veins, he jingles his way over to Hanzo. McCree enjoys the deep furrow of Hanzo’s brow as he plops down on the mattress next to him. The compact space settles in his mind as less cramped, and more cozy.  
  
“May I?” McCree offers his metal hand. Hanzo points his bottle to it and McCree twists it off for him. McCree says, “Thanks a lot back there, by the way. I mean that. I half expected you to toss me to those jackals to save your own hide.”  
  
“That would have been the height of dishonor.” Throwing back his own hefty sip, Hanzo then says, “You think that little of me?”  
  
“Hell no. I wouldn’t have thought little of you if you had. Just would have made sense.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Uh, well, I figured you’d jump at the opportunity to get me off your hands. My impression was you didn’t much like Earth people.”  
  
Hanzo sips his beer, head bowed in thought. He says, “I don’t.”  
  
McCree’s heart aches a bit, but he supposes his hopes were too high to begin with.  
  
“But the thought of the Dragon Lord getting his hands on red dragonstone, however, is far more disturbing.”  
  
“So, tell me about them.”  
  
“There are a variety of dragonstones, each a different color depending on where they are harvested. Despite thousands of years of usage and study, all we can determine is that they are something of a distilled essence of this planet. Mine, for example, were harvested from some of the deepest oceans on Hanamura.”  
  
McCree knows he is shifting into reporter mode, but the questions crowd out his sense of restraint. “I follow. What’s the Vision Journey like?”  
  
“Each stone has its own unique trials.” he shakes his head. “My struggle met with twin dragons, of ebb and flow. Crest and trough. They often dragged me to the darkest depths in my dreams, where I endured the terror of drowning almost constantly.”  
  
Suddenly, tears spring from his eyes. With a gentle hand, McCree chances a touch to Hanzo’s back. Hanzo does not seem to notice as he continues, “When I sought answers, like you, I was told that the blue represents a test of depth. The depth of hunger. Of self-control. Of one’s heart. Of grief.”  
  
“Your grief?”  
  
Hanzo turns to him. “Trials can last weeks, months, or in my case, years. The dreams do not end until something in this reality pushes you to face the true nature of your character.”  
  
“Like a spark,” McCree says.  
  
“Yes. An event that forces a confrontation with the self. Mine did not occur until I slew my brother.”  
  
At that, McCree pounds another swig. “Shit,” he says. But then, it dawns. “But you didn’t go blind.”  
  
Hanzo continues, “That very day, after I gazed upon his broken body, I went to the river. I threw myself in.” He sets his bottle down on the cold tile floor, then falls back onto the mattress. “I let the ice cold water enter my aching lungs. I let my heart feel the true depth of my sorrow, and I drowned. I am certain I did. But then, the dragons they...they came alive. They carried me to the riverbank. With my reflection in the water, I confirmed that the stone awakened.”  
  
McCree sets his own bottle down, and lowers himself back onto the mattress as well. He stares up at the blotchy, discolored ceiling in silence, granting the appropriate reverence to the guarded secret he just heard.  
  
“Why did you kill him?”  
  
Hanzo winces.  
  
“Forget it,” McCree says. “That was too much.”  
  
“Perhaps. It is outside of what I agreed to discuss.”  
  
“Fair enough. Then if I may, what color did your brother have?” he asks, gentler, hoping he doesn’t push too hard.  
  
Hanzo replies, “He was given the green dragonstone. Its kind is taken from our lushest forests and marshes. He was told that it represents the essence of nature, of life. The irony is not lost on me, and makes my actions even more painful for me to endure. He never had the opportunity to awaken his.”  
  
“Green,” McCree repeats. The word instantly conjures the image of the cloaked stranger with the sword. He hesitates to bring it up. Instead, he says, “You know, if you get sick of my questions, just say so.”  
  
“You requested this information. I am fulfilling my word,” Hanzo wipes his eyes with the pad of his thumb.  
  
“Shit, not if it’s gonna sting you this bad.”  
  
“No. It is strange, but my burdens seem lighter as I recount these memories.”  
  
“Burdens tend to do that when they’re shared,” McCree observes.  
  
Hanzo hums.  
  
McCree takes a deep breath. “Did your father have implants?”  
  
Hanzo turns his gaze back to the ceiling, and he smiles cruelly. “My father. Indeed, he did. When he was a boy, he was given the gold dragonstone. The stone is even more precious and rare, only appearing in places where sunlight is constant. It is supposed to be the spirit of cleansing, of wellness, of healing.” The smirk broadens into a wry grin. “But he failed.”  
  
“Failed? He didn’t awaken his?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Wait,” McCree says, pausing to put it all together. “You’re tellin’ me the Dragon Lord is _blind?_ ”  
  
“Yes. The spirit of the stone rejected his character.”  
  
“Well I’ll be,” McCree says, digesting the information. “Okay, so why can’t they take them out? Give him regular implants?”  
  
“Because that is not our tradition. If a Shimada clan member fails in their Journey, they must accept the full consequences of their inadequacy, and wear that proof until they are laid to rest.”  
  
“Could he ever get new ones and try the Vision quest again?”  
  
“Unthinkable. That would be heresy. The spirits-- they would know. Even if it were permitted, only enough dragonstone can be found and collected within a generation to forge a single pair of implants. Since the golden dragonstone is so rare, I doubt there will be enough for another in one hundred years.”  
  
“This is just wild,” McCree says. “Wild, crazy shit.”  
  
Hanzo chuckles. It builds into a full blown fit of laughter, and it’s such an infectious sound that McCree flashes a toothy grin at him.  
  
His heart flutters when Hanzo says, “It is miraculous. Since yesterday, I have not smiled like this. Not since Genji died.”  
  
It takes extraordinary willpower for McCree not to reach out the few inches between them and tangle his fingers with Hanzo’s. He reminds himself that it was only yesterday they met. That Hanzo regards him as highly as he would a slug crawling out of a primordial soup. McCree avoids dwelling on it by saying, “Alright, one last question while you’re in a good mood. It’s the doozy.”  
  
“You wish to know about the red,” Hanzo surmises. “The rarest of all. It is harvested from slaughters, from massacres, from battlefields. From blood.”  
  
“I was afraid it was somethin’ like that.”  
  
“It contains the spirit of death. It is a rare substance, as such conflict has been rare in our history. Many have tried, but few Shimada have ever awakened the red dragonstone, and during times of great strife. In fact, these are the only times within the past millennium that the red stone has been forged.”  
  
“Huh,” is all McCree can muster.  
  
“Witness accounts claim that the red stone is the most difficult of all to awaken. Like all stones, it demands a bond with its nature. Your spirit must find a way to connect with its essence.”  
  
“Or else I go blind in this eye,” McCree says. “Might not be so bad, considerin’ all the shit you just told me about death and blood. Though I suspected as much from my dreams.” He massages his forehead, sighing.  
  
“I had no idea that another species could also live out the Vision Ceremony, let alone anyone outside our clan. This would be an incredible discovery were these different circumstances.”  
  
“Yeah. Lucky me, bein’ the hapless guinea pig.”  
  
Hanzo studies him. The look in his eye is almost tender. “What are they like?” he asks. “Your dreams?”  
  
McCree closes his eyes. “Scary, if only ‘cause I don’t know what’s comin’ next. It’s like I’m under a microscope, gettin’ poked and tortured. It hurts like it’s real, and Red’s a real asshole. Kinda like my real boss.”  
  
“Red?”  
  
“Ye-up. That’s what I call ‘em.”  
  
“He appears every night?”  
  
“Naw, not every night, thank goodness. But enough to where I hate falling asleep anymore without getting good and knockered. When I pass out drunk, I don’t dream so much.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
McCree reels at the genuine emotion behind Hanzo’s statement. “Well, we Earth people are tougher than we look. But one other thing about all this bothers me. Now, I don’t count so good, but I reckon there ought to be two of these. Why do I only got the one? Where is the other one?”  
  
“Indeed. Yet another troubling question.”  
  
“Ah well. If we stick together, we’ll eventually figure it out.”  
  
“Stick together?”  
  
“Yeah. You and me. Like Starsky and Hutch.”  
  
Hanzo sits up. “No. We agreed that you would go home.”  
  
McCree huffs. With a wry smirk, he joins him, saying, “I s’pose you’re right. It is gettin’ on. It might be about time I chanced my way back to the Horus Inn.”  
  
Hanzo hesitates. “By yourself?”  
  
“Yep, I sure do hate to impose on your hospitality any longer.” McCree stands. “Guess I’ll be alright on my lonesome ‘til the next freighter comes rollin’ through.” He heads for the door.  
  
“No!” Hanzo blurts.  
  
McCree halts in his tracks and looks back over his shoulder, with an exaggerated quirk of his brow. _Bingo._  
  
Hanzo blusters a bit before shaking his head. “I mean, it is unsafe for you to return. Talon may ambush you alone.”  
  
“And jus’ where am I gonna kick up my spurs if it ain’t there?”  
  
Hanzo’s jaw sets. “Here.”  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“Here!”  
  
A flush of heat flares up under McCree’s chin, and he runs a finger under the collar of his serape. “Not sure if that’s gonna work. I mean, you only got one bed. Not to mention,” McCree exposes one of his armpits and takes a whiff. “Whew. I ain’t exactly smellin’ like a lily.”  
  
“I do not care. If you are concerned with your hygiene, then there is soap in the washroom we passed.”  
  
A grin spreads across McCree’s face, ending with a chuckle. “Well, alright. Your funeral if we cuddle up and you suffocate under a cloud of my manly musk.” He stands and begins to remove his belt along with Peacemaker and the flashbangs he has left, and rests them in the chair.  
  
“Cuddle up? And just what do you think you’re doing?”  
  
McCree makes a point of facing him while removing his hat, serape, then snapping off his breastplate. McCree chuckles as a cute shade of pink colors Hanzo’s cheeks as he takes in an eyeful. “What? If I’m stayin’ here a spell, then I might at least get myself more comfortable.” He tosses the items to the chair before stooping to loosen his boots. “On second thought, I’ll hit the bath first before I take these suckers off.”  
  
“Then go. Hurry up,” Hanzo says, averting his eyes.  
  
“Yes, my darlin’,” McCree says, laying on the baritone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's still sticking with this weird, crazy idea


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!! I got it done! ANOTHER CHAPTER! *airhorn*
> 
> But hang tight for the next one. I've been going back and forth on some things so an update may be late next week (I hope).
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Thanks!

_Yeah, boss?_  
  
_Saddle up. Got an assignment for you._  
  
_Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Here I thought I was gettin’ sent out to pasture._  
  
_You’re not going anywhere. We’re not going anywhere, I don’t care what Jack says, or thinks very loudly._  
  
_Fair enough. What ya got for me?_  
  
_I've come across some...interesting rumors I would like for you to follow up on. My associate has picked up word of a Hanamurian in Dr. Ziegler's care._  
  
_Mite strange for a Hanamurian to seek an Earth doctor.  No slight to her, but it's the equivalent of one of us going to some old-fashioned quack instead of a proper clinic._  
  
_Right.  But this patient, apparently, was more bent out of shape than an eight-year-old's action figure._  
  
_Bent out of shape?_  
  
_As in limbs and ribs turned around where they shouldn't be. And according to my source, Dr. Ziegler also arranged for a large supply of biotic substrate to be delivered to her clinic-- well off of their usual schedule. My instincts scream that there was something else on board that shipment._  
  
_How do they - this associate - know all this?_  
  
_I'm not at liberty to discuss my associate’s methods, and would no doubt fly over that ten-gallon of yours. But you'll join me in a silent prayer of thanks for social media, where privacy and non-disclosure go out the window._  
  
_And where facts get buried in bullshit. Now you may wanna hike up your drawers for this, but people_ lie _on the Internet. For imaginary points._  
  
_My drawers are firmly secure, smartass, but yours are about to get dirty. I want you to wade past the bullshit. Verify the rumor. If it's true, then we can follow up with who this patient is, and why he or she is seeking out an Earth doctor._  
  
_Hold up, now. We both know that this is real shaky info to go on, and it sounds like you want me to find the mountain in the molehill. It ain't like you._  
  
_And it ain't like you to suddenly become a shrinking violet at being let off the leash. If it's nothing, then what's the harm?_  
  
_Maybe I'm just gettin' on in my years, and I ain't so keen no more about these wild goose chases. If it’s a waste of time, then Jack won’t be happy to have yet another expense report come across his desk with squat to show for it._  
  
_But what if it’s the golden goose? We need something, and here you are, sounding just like that son of a bitch.  You want to prove him wrong, too, don't you?_  
  
_Would you stop and listen to yourself? Is that what matters to you?_  
  
_Hardly. But it's getting in the way of what this planet needs._  
  
_And jus' who are you to decide that?_  
  
_You ungrateful little shit. I saved you, and you think you got the right to give me lip? You know, I’ve been thinking that maybe ever since you got that piece of crap installed in your head, you really can’t see the big picture here. Maybe the Hanamurians got into your brain with that thing, and it’s turning you against me.  Your own fucking people!_  
  
_Easy there, Gabe. That’s horseshit, and you know it. I ain’t no rat bastard.  You know?  I ain’t got time for this._  
  
_Then prove it. You arrange a follow-up appointment with Dr. Ziegler, and you schmooze, you cajole, you do whatever the fuck you need to do to get me something I can work with. No excuses._  
  
_Yeah, right. She’s gonna know something’s up. Already met with her a few weeks back._  
  
_Then that’s your problem.  Now kindly g_ _et the fuck out of my office._

* * *

  
  
Water drips in rivulets over the skin of his torso, taking with them suds of soap from his shoulders and face. With the flat of his palm, he sloughs off sweat and dirt from his body, then splashes more water on to rinse. He tries to contain most of the wash within the sink basin, but little can be done about the shallow pool of water collecting under his bare feet. What was a little more scum and mildew? As the cool air ghosts over his damp skin and hair, he exhales a sigh of contentment.  
  
He detects pressure building in his bladder. He braves a glance over to the filthy commode. The discolored bowl is bone dry and cracked.  
  
“Shit,” he swears under his breath. He redresses himself in his chaps and takes his boots in hand. He leaves the washroom and makes for the service door. He opens it a crack, peering out for any prying eyes or adversaries. Seeing the alleyway deserted, he props the door open with one of his boots. Once outside, he moves aside a few paces to a sewer grate, unzips and sighs as he drains himself. Quickly, and while keenly aware of his vulnerable state.  
  
Despite his hyperalert state of mind, a lingering secret invades his thoughts. The question of the green-eyed swordsman. He has a theory, but sure that Hanzo isn’t going to like being torn from his state of blissful ignorance.  
  
Even after he finishes, he pauses to summon whatever scraps of intestinal fortitude he has left, and until his self-consciousness compels him to shake out the last drops, zip up, and head back to the virtual closet Hanzo calls home. Cradling his boots, and mindful of the spurs of the former, he pushes aside the drapes. The bells jingle. The layer of sweat he just wiped off his skin returns to his temples.  
  
Hanzo sits on his bed, hunched over, with an arrow shaft in his lap and fussing with its fletching. He has removed his black hood, and loosened his coat to where his left arm and pectoral are exposed to the air. Shamelessly, McCree lets his eyes rove over the incredible tattoo of a dragon etched across his perfect skin.  
  
“Beautiful,” he says.  
  
Hanzo glances up. “Feeling better?”  
  
“Much. That is quite the work of art on your arm.”  
  
“Ah, yes. It helped me endure my Vision Journey.” His shoulders drop as he looks up, his gaze settling on McCree’s chest. “You…”  
  
McCree glances down at the expanse of blotches, pockmarks, and heavy scars that riddle his torso. He shrugs. “Memories.”  
  
“You truly are a warrior.”  
  
Their gazes lock.  Matched with Hanzo's close scrutiny, the statement punches McCree in the gut, and he trembles as he deposits his boots and serape next to the chair. “I guess,” he says, and it’s all his brain can muster. He snatches up Peacekeeper, and pulls a kerchief from his pocket. He joins Hanzo, taking up his forgotten beer and testing its temperature with a sip. Good enough. He sits cross-legged on the floor next to the bed. He empties the gun’s chambers and begins his own bit of maintenance.  
  
“Where did you get that?” Hanzo asks.  
  
“What, this?” McCree says, holding up Peacekeeper. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she? Belonged to my mom’s family. My biological mom. My foster mom taught me to shoot until I could score a tick off a horse’s flank at two dozen paces. Been by my side through thick and thin, and I know it like it’s part of my own body.”  
  
Hanzo nods.  
  
“What about your bow?” McCree says. “I ain’t seen nothin' like it.”  
  
“Nor will you. Since I was a young boy, I was trained in the use of a number of weaponry. But the bow...the bow was created in the Forge.”  
  
“The Forge?”  
  
“Yes. The Forge. It is the core of Heaven, and is the reason it defies even gravity, and has done so for millennia. Stories of its origins are murky and conflicting, but the Shimada have harnessed its power ever since they could reach it.”  
  
“Huh.  And they made you a bow?”  
  
“Along with the implants, a weapon is forged alongside them, as both a expression of that stone, and the proficiency of its bearer. The intention is that when the stone awakens, its power will be channeled through its matching weapon.”  
  
McCree takes a long breath, then lobs the grenade: “What about your brother?”  
  
Hanzo frowns and fiddles some more with the arrow fletching. “A sword.”  
  
“A sword,” McCree repeats, as he fears. Green eyes. Sword. A look that could kill. The combined traits possessed by the cloaked cyborg. He wrestles with himself, but as he watches Hanzo’s meticulous hands work the arrow to perfection, his aching heart makes the decision for him.  
  
Meanwhile, Hanzo continues, “He was very fond of the weapon as a boy. He was fearsome to watch, with the grace and swiftness of a sparrow. These weapons - my bow, his sword - were forged and presented to us after we accepted our dragonstones. They also encouraged us to succeed.”  
  
“Say, Hanzo,” McCree starts.  
  
“Hm?” Hanzo utters.  
  
“So we’ve been in the habit of showin’ our cards. No bullshit, right? I intend to keep that habit up, because whatever your opinion is of me, I respect you.”  
  
Hanzo’s attention lifts from the arrow. “This ‘habit’ is what has made you respectable to me as well, for an Earth man. What do you wish to tell me?”  
  
“Let’s say I met a guy when I first got here. Say he also had green eyes, a long sword, and had a strong family resemblance to one Hanzo Shimada.”  
  
Hanzo straightens, his gaze intense. “Do not play games.”  
  
“I ain’t playin’ with you. I saw this man in the flesh- well, so to speak. I spoke to him, and didn’t seem like no ghost I ever heard of. He done me a solid when I got into a tangle with a local.”  
  
“No. It must have been someone else.”  
  
“You said your brother’s stone was green. So was this fella’s eyes. Glowy and all, like yours.”  
  
Hanzo bolts to his feet. “Impossible!”  
  
“Real character, and carrying the prettiest green sword I ever did see on his back.”  
  
“Silence!” Hanzo glares, to where it feels as if McCree plunged the arrow in Hanzo’s lap straight into his chest. “You _mock_ me! After all this time I have wasted on your mangy hide.”  
  
McCree stands. “Hey, easy now. To be fair, he didn’t look totally like a man, though. I mean, he was as much machine as-,”  
  
Suddenly, a throaty yell reverberates down the short hall, and cuts him off.  
  
“ _Say ‘bacon’ one more time!_ ” the voice grinds out.  
  
“Ain’t that the barkeep?” McCree says.  
  
Hanzo snatches up his bow and quiver. McCree rapidly reassembles and reloads Peacekeeper, and only has the time to throw on his serape and hat. Together, they slip out into the hall to investigate. With Peacekeeper raised, McCree presses himself against the wall, shortening his profile enough to avoid detection as he peeks out from around the door frame into the bar.  
  
“ _Shit,_ ” McCree hisses when he spots the black-clad throng of Talon agents surrounding the bar counter.  One agent stands tall in the center, while the others crouch, each armed with throwing knives wedged between their knuckles.  
  
Roadhog has his meathook in one hand, and a huge, nasty-looking, double-barreled handgun in his other. “I ain’t got nothing else to say. You worms can get the fuck out of my bar.” He snorts. “Or maybe I ought to gut and hang the lot you for scaring off my customers!” He holds up the meathook.  
  
“Our lady knows they are here. Just tell us where, and we won’t burn this rat’s nest to the ground,” the Talon agent says.  
  
“We must flee,” Hanzo whispers.  
  
McCree gives him a look like he’s crazy. He whispers back, “Hell no. That Roadhog fella’s in a right pickle ‘cause of us.”  
  
Hanzo reels, then looks to the floor, chastened. “You are right.” In a flash, he nocks, aims, and fires a missile over McCree’s shoulder at the nearest agent. The arrow embeds into the flooring next to the agent’s feet. He shouts, “Over here, you fools!” The agents flinch, startling at the attack.  
  
“Was hoping for a little more finesse,” McCree says. He steps out from the door, and to the agents, he shouts, “C’mon, ladies and gents. Let’s settle this outside good and proper folk, shall we?”  
  
“Get him!” one of the agents says. Splinters shower McCree’s cheek, and he reels when he finds a trio of throwing knives embedded in the door frame beside him. Hanzo claps and pulls McCree’s shoulder, tearing him back toward the hall. They dash for the service door and burst out into the alleyway.  
  
“Where do we go now?” McCree asks, shivering with his bare chest exposed to the evening air. The service door bursts open behind them, and the crunch of chasing footsteps behind him spurs him on faster.  
  
His breath catches when a report of a rifle cracks through the air. Then, a sudden, terrible sting rips a blazing trail of agony up the back of his thigh. He cries out and stumbles forward, only just catching himself with his metal hand before he faceplants onto the pavement. His other hand flies to the back of his thigh, where he feels warm blood and the gouge of a bullet hole. “God... _damn!_ ”  
  
"McCree!" Hanzo shouts, halting with a start once he realizes McCree has fallen behind. He readies his bow and nocks an arrow, growling as he faces down the advancing line of Talon thugs.  
  
McCree takes short breaths, wincing with every move and spasm of his tired, wounded body. _It’s over. Mission failure._ Overwatch would deny everything, and no one on Earth will be none the wiser. And so he dies a dog’s death, far away from home.  
  
He doesn't know if it's the pain, or the words themselves that squeeze out the breath from his lungs. He lifts his chin just enough to catch one last look at Hanzo’s dazzling, lovely eyes. "Hanzo, it's enough. You done more than enough, so don’t be stupid. You can quit pretendin' to be my friend now, and save yourself the trouble." He tries to move his leg, but a grunt escapes him as his hamstrings scream with pain and refuse to budge. He raises Peacekeeper’s barrel, pointing it to his eye socket. "I’ll shoot this thing out of me if I have to. So jus' go.” He waves him off with the gun. “Git!"  
  
Hanzo's blue eyes flare to an angry blaze. "Silence, you oaf! I do not take orders from Earth men. They shall not touch you. Not so long as I draw breath."  
  
McCree gasps, unsure if because of the pain, or Hanzo’s words. He heaves as a surge of amusement pushes up and out of him.  
  
An agent observes, "Honorless prince. You speak as though he were your lover. Disgusting."  
  
Within the blink of an eye, he looses an arrow and fells the agent instantly. “The dragon stirs. _Hungers._ ” He nocks another, the blaze in his eyes reaching their peak. He pulls back the arrow.  
  
“ _Ryuu ga waga teki-_ , ah!”  
  
Another report of the rifle sounds. McCree lurches when Hanzo doubles over, dropping his bow. The blue fire blinks out. He clutches at his hand, and McCree can plainly see blood dripping from a clean shot through the base of his thumb. Hanzo grimaces, taking an arrow from its quiver with his other hand and wielding it as though it were a short blade.  
  
Meanwhile, McCree grunts as he sets himself onto his side, and cradles Peacekeeper close. Inspired by Hanzo’s example, he intends to go down with a fight. But before he can roll himself over, two Talon agents set upon him and spin him onto his back with a jarring thud against the pavement. One holds his arms down. He cries out when the other sets his knee atop his injured thigh.  
  
With tears clouding his vision, McCree rolls his head back see Hanzo restrained by the other two. One has Hanzo in a sleeper hold, and he struggles against them fiercely. He relents only when the second agent reels back his fist and strikes him in the solar plexus. Seeing Hanzo gasp, McCree clenches with a terrible rage.  
  
His right eye twitches. The red curtain descends.  
  
“You folks are really, really pissin’ me off,” McCree growls. “So help me _God_ , I’ll hunt down and kill each and every last one of you.”  
  
“Remove it,” the Talon leader says.  
  
“Heaven won’t save you. There ain’t gonna be _nowhere_ you bastards can hide!”  
  
“Ah, ah, ah.”  
  
A cool, candied voice clucks at them. Then, from the shadows above, a dark creature descends from a grappling line. A catsuit hugs her curvaceous figure, and her heels clack against the pavement as she lands in a smooth step, with a long rifle in hand. A mask of red baubles conceals the upper half of her face. With her imposing stance and towering stature, the entire picture exudes the menace of a consummate predator.  
  
"Amélie,” Hanzo growls. “And so you slither out from under your rock.”  
  
She clicks her tongue. “You speak as though you aren’t just another peasant.” She glances down to McCree, the corner of her lip curling up. “And the quarry speaks as though he were the hunter. No one can escape Talon,” She presses a button on the side of her helm, and its faceplate retracts into the crown. "No one can hide from my sight."  
  
McCree's mouth runs dry as his jaw falls open. There, her left eye glows in a deep red.  
  
“That...that is red dragonstone!" Hanzo says.  
  
"Well, that answers that,” McCree rasps out. God, he needs a smoke.  
  
Hanzo bares his teeth and says, “Father continues to astonish me. That he would grant such an object to his mistress?”  
  
She answers, “Yet as you can see, it has deemed my spirit worthy. Your father does not misjudge me, as you do.”  
  
“I judge you by your deeds, _Widowmaker._ If you believe my father cares for you, you are mistaken. He cares only for himself!”  
  
The Widowmaker remains unfazed. Cooly, "I am not here to argue family politics with you. I am here for what rightfully belongs to me. As well as to make an offer to you, First Son," she says.  
  
"You have nothing I could possibly desire."  
  
"Au contraire. You see, Talon could restore your reputation. Perhaps even your honor."  
  
Hanzo’s furious expression falls in shock.  
  
“I would be a shame for your skills and your power to have go to waste when you could work for me.” She then glances to McCree and says, "Cut out and bring me this Earth creature's ill-gotten device. Do this, and it will be a service to his Lordship that even he cannot overlook."  
  
McCree tries not to let his panic show, but he cannot prevent the cold sweat from breaking out across his body. The expression on Hanzo's face is one of intense contemplation. It was as if McCree were watching a coin flip in slow motion. He holds his breath, waiting for it to land.  
  
Finally, it does. Hanzo's expression twists in rage. He growls, saying, "There is no honor in what you ask of me. None! I'd rather die!"  
  
She clicks her tongue. "A shame. A real pity. Then you may watch as we cut it out of him. Then, we will take back yours as well. We should have done so the moment you were banished."  
  
Hanzo reels. "That is pure blasphemy! You cannot do such a thing!"  
  
"Your father sends his regards. Now, bring me my prize!"  
  
The agent pinning McCree’s leg brandishes a dagger and lowers it to his right eye socket. McCree struggles again against the weight pressing down on his limbs. Vaguely, he hears Hanzo call out. "That coward! Unhand me! _Unhand_ me!"  
  
“Lights out!”  
  
A blow gun hisses. Widowmaker lurches forward, crying out with shock. She twists, and reveals a dart lodged in her shoulder blade. She blinks back a sudden fatigue that rolls in over her eyes. “That fucking crone,” she hisses.  
  
Another, deeper voice booms through the alleyway.  
  
“ _Ryuujin no ken o kure!_ ”  
  
Even through the red veil of McCree’s eye, a flash of brilliant green slices cross his vision. He blinks, and the red veil recedes when the agent above him falls forward. McCree looks over the corpse to see a fatal gash across their back.  
  
Another flash, and the agents holding him down are sliced clean through. Another flash.  McCree crosses his arms over his face as their bisected bodies crumble, and blood pours.  Another flash, and the agents subduing Hanzo suffer the same fate.  
  
McCree turns his head, glancing around at the street littered with corpses. Then, McCree grins as a half-omnic, half-man drops down above him with his sword drawn. A green dragon is coiled around his torso and arm, and his green eyes glow bright, but not in billowing waves like Hanzo’s-- more like fireflies.  
  
“Well hey, if it’s ain’t-ah,” he coughs. “Mr. Unnecessary.”  
  
“A pleasure to meet you once again, Jesse McCree.” With a flick of his wrist, he throws off the residual blood coating the sword, then returns it across his back.  The dragon evaporates into specks of light.  
  
“I’d say the pleasure is duly mine.” It’s a struggle, but McCree reaches up, to tip his hat.  
  
“Savor your...ah...final hours alive.” The Widowmaker raises her arm, and her grappling hook shoots out toward the rooftops. It pulls taut and hauls her up, the red glint of her helmet swallowed up in the dusky rooftops.

From behind her vacated position, and underneath a blue hood, another familiar face approaches, white braid across her shoulder and a patch at her left eye. McCree quirks his brow at the rifle clutched between her arms, similar to the Widowmaker’s.  “Ana?” he says.  
  
“Hello there! A little sparrow told me you boys might have found some trouble.”  
  
“Correction. The trouble found us,” McCree says, trying to hoist himself up to his elbows.  
  
“It-,” Hanzo’s voice quivers. “It cannot be!”  
  
“Brother,” the green man says, turning.  
  
“ _Genji!_ ” Hanzo stumbles forward in shock, and places his bloody hands on his brother’s shoulders. “I did not believe it, but you live! How? How is this possible?” Hanzo asks, looking over the machinery that has replaced much of Genji’s body. When he looks in Genji’s eyes, he says, “It must be a dream. You are not...but you have awakened!”  
  
“It is good to see you too, brother,” Genji says. He nods to his injured hand. “It is a long story, but you are hurt, and so is our Earth friend.”  
  
Hanzo, now openly weeping, pulls his brother into a tight embrace. “I am so sorry,” Hanzo sobs. “For your suffering. For _everything._ I should have stood up to father.”  
  
Genji pushes him off. “That is enough, brother. Because of you, we are both free. Compose yourself, and we will have our tearful reunion later.”  
  
“Uh, fellas,” McCree pipes up.  He blinks, beating back a wave of dizziness.  “I’m gonna need a hand.”  
  
Ana kneels next to McCree, and swiftly injects a syringe into his injured leg. She says, “This is a clotting agent. It should keep you from bleeding out until we make it back to the Inn. I can have you sealed up in no time.”  
  
“What about-” McCree starts, gritting his teeth as a uncomfortable tightness wells up in his thigh.  
  
“That dose should keep her off our backs for the next several hours.” The brothers stoop to gather him up by the shoulders. She stands with them and says, “Careful now! My truck is this way.”  
  
McCree finds footing on his good leg, throwing an arm around Hanzo with Peacekeeper dangling in his fingers. He teeters when Hanzo threads an arm across around back and waves Genji off, taking on the balance of his weight. McCree gladly leans against him as he limps forward.  
  
Suddenly, the service door bursts open. Roadhog appears, first hurling out Hanzo’s chair with an overhead throw. Then his mattress, refrigerator, and the rest of his possessions. Along with them, he throws out the rest of McCree’s things.  
  
“ _Hey!_ ” Hanzo shouts, turning with McCree.  
  
Roadhog pauses to brush his hands. He grunts, “Hn. Still alive, huh? Would have made this less awkward if Talon had slit your throats.”  
  
“What are you doing?” Hanzo demands.  
  
“I tolerated our arrangement, your Highness, but that was before you brought Talon dogs sniffing around here and threatening my business. I don’t need that kind of trouble, so consider our arrangement terminated!”  
  
The beast of a man disappears back into the bar, slamming the door in his wake. Hanzo frowns at the heap of his discarded belongings.  
  
“It matters not, brother. You do not need to stay here any longer,” Genji says.  
  
With Hanzo's help, McCree staggers forward, eyeing the glint of his belt buckle resting atop the junk pile. “Well, if neither of you mind, I’d like to dig up my stuff. Compared to you all, I’m feelin’ a mite underdressed at the moment.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the last chapter wasn't too overwhelming with info...because this one also peels back more layers. It's also just the constant battle of creative confidence and self-doubt
> 
> Anyway! The good news is that there's MORE! ENJOY

_Unavailable?_  
  
_That’s correct. Dr. Ziegler has taken a leave of absence. And sir? There’s no smoking._  
  
_Leave of absence? You best be pullin’ my leg._  
  
_She has prepared a referral list for her current patients in the meantime. Would you like to set up an appointment now?_  
  
_I need to speak with her. Ain’t there any means I can get in touch?_  
  
_I’m sorry, sir._  
  
_What if I told you I’ve got a walkin’ malady back home who won’t hesitate to put me six feet under if I don’t speak with her? I consider that a medical emergency. Don’t you?_  
  
_I’m sorry, sir. And please put that out._  
  
_Shit. Fine, but that’s if you can tell me one thing. Does this have anythin’ to do with a certain, otherworldly patient o’ hers I’ve been hearin’ about?_  
  
_I have no idea what you are talking about._  
  
_I hope you ain’t much for poker, ‘cause you got me wantin’ to bet otherwise._  
  
_If you are not here to make an appointment, then please leave. I have other patients to assist._  
  
_You listen carefully. You see this thing here? It may look all dead and gray, but it’s actually scanning your vitals as we speak. Tells me your pulse is high, and you’re sweatin’ like a pig underneath that collar. Now, I know you’re jus’ doin’ your job, so how about you just confirm whether a Hanamurian was in the doctor’s care recently, and I’ll be out of your hair._  
  
_I’m afraid I can’t. I mean, it’s just rumor._  
  
_Ah. But when there’s smoke, there’s fire._  
  
_Wait a minute. You’re Overwatch, aren’t you?_  
  
_You know what? Forget we ever spoke._  
  
_Wait!_  
  
_What?_  
_Dr. Ziegler kept no record in our databases._  
  
_Excuse me?_  
  
_She saw this patient, but there’s no record. From what I hear, it exhausted her completely. That’s all I’ll say._  
  
_Thank you kindly. You have yourself a good one._

* * *

  
  
When he woke up on his back at the Drunken Dragon, he believed Hanamurian sake would never pass his lips again in his lifetime, let alone within a day.  
  
Yet now, as its unholy taste boils his tongue, the incredible strength of it blanks out the dull pain in his thigh as Ana digs inside its flesh for the pieces of rifle round lodged there. The local Ana gave him only numbs his nerves so much. He clenches when her tweezers pinches on a piece of shrapnel. She gently tugs it free of the wound. She deposits the bloody pieces on a tray Fareeha holds nearby.  
  
“How long will this take?” Hanzo says, pacing.  
  
“Until everything’s out,” Ana says, squinting through the single lens of a modified surgical loupe. “And with my depth perception as it is, I have to do this slowly.” While not presenting the tray, Fareeha dutifully holds a flashlight over his thigh.  
  
“Patience, brother,” Genji says. He sits cross-legged on an extra cot nearby, with McCree’s things - and chaps - piled up at its foot. “You know surgery cannot be rushed.”  
  
“Seriously. It’s not like I meant to get, ah, shot like a boar,” McCree sets down the mug from his lips, replacing it with a lit cigarillo. “But while we’re stuck here, why don’t you all answer a question for me. How is it you, ah, ow, all know each other? Clue a fella in.”  
  
Genji answers, “Ana was the former head of Horus, the Shimada security forces.”  
  
Hanzo frowns, adding, “What is now Talon.”  
  
“No kiddin’,” McCree says. “Wish I’d known when you served me that incredible stew.”  
  
She says, “I apologize for not being more upfront with you, mister McCree, but our little sparrow only asked that I watch over you until he was ready to help you on your Journey. Though neither of us anticipated that you would become fast friends with dear Hanzo, or attract the attention of Talon. At least not so soon.”

Genji looks over to McCree, and his eyes give away a smile where his lips cannot. “I am proud of you, brother. I always told you that Earth people were more charming than you gave them credit for.”  
  
“Hmph,” Hanzo replies, looking away. “I still cannot believe this. How long have you kept me a fool?”  
  
“It was not my intent to make you a fool. I had much on my own mind.” Genji shakes his head. “But I see my hesitation was a mistake. This is all my fault. But I was not ready to fully come out of the shadows. And to see you, brother.”  
  
McCree’s attention span, meanwhile, drops off a cliff as he flounders for the mug of foul liquid. “Holy _shit._ ” He gulps down a swig, straining as the tweezers latch onto a piece of bullet, and he feels the flesh resist against Ana as she steadily increases the force of her pull.  
  
“Still with me, dear?” she says.  
  
McCree gasps when the flesh yields and the shard comes away. “Great,” he squeaks.  
  
“I’ll refresh your mug,” Fareeha says as Ana dives back in.  
  
“Thanks,” he says. Once the stars peppering his vision recede, he remarks, “So you were up there, Ana. When shit hit the fan. No offense.”  
  
“When Genji had supposedly perished, and Hanzo was banished, my services were no longer needed, and so I was dismissed,” Ana explains.  
  
“By ‘dismissed’ she means ‘escaped with barely her life’,” Fareeha adds, adding more sake to his mug. “And not without considerable loss.”  
  
“Come now, it was only a scratch,” Ana says, cheery.  
  
“And I still don’t think having your eye shot out counts as ‘only a scratch’,” Fareeha retorts.  
  
“Well, you’re in, ah, good company, Ms. Amari,” McCree says, wincing. “Who did it to you? Omnics?”  
  
Ana pauses. “She did. Amélie. The people of her planet are known to be extremely proficient in whatever they set their minds to, whether it’s ballet, marksmanship, what have you. She was perhaps the only one who could.”  
  
“Why’d they hunt you? Try to kill you?” McCree asks.  
  
Ana says, “Since Hanzo’s removal, the Dragon Lord purged Heaven of anyone who was not unquestionably loyal, by any means necessary.”  
  
“Even his own sons,” McCree deduces, glancing between the brothers. “His own flesh and blood.” His gaze rests on Hanzo, who stops his pacing and crosses his arms.  
  
Ana says, “Though they only wounded me, they considered my best asset to be gone. So, they left me alone to raise my daughter.”  
  
“You’re still a great shot,” Fareeha says.  
  
Ana smiles. “Don’t go telling Talon that. Hold still.”  
  
McCree cries out and bares his teeth as Ana latches onto another jagged edge and pulls. The deepest one yet, if the pain is any clue. Pressure comes down onto his ankle, holding in place a leg that wants to kick and squirm away. Then, in an instant, it was all over. McCree gasps with relief.  
  
“There,” Ana says, depositing the last piece onto the tray and folding up the lens over her head. She covers up McCree’s underwear-clad backside with bedsheets. “Let me go wash up. Do not move. I will be back to close you up. Fareeha, come.”  
  
“Yes, mom.”  
  
Hanzo rubs the base of his thumb, where his own bandage sits. “It is difficult to wait here, while Talon may be closing in on us at any moment. She is even more dangerous than ever with the red eye. We should have pursued and finished her off.”  
  
“Well, I ain’t goin’ nowhere fast until Ms. Amari here sews me up. So, Genji?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“If I’m readin’ this right, you were the one who set this up with Reyes, weren’t you?”  
  
Genji closes his eyes and nods. “I apologize for that deception as well. I did not trust your organization, and did not want rumors of my survival to become public discourse at the time.”  
  
“A wise precaution,” McCree says grimly.  
  
“I also wanted to see the truth for myself. That you carry a Shimada eye, and that you are on the Journey. An Earth human, no less. I hoped to observe you and your character, and determine whether you are a threat.”  
  
“Comforting. And?”  
  
“It is too soon to tell. But since I do not wish to cut it out of you myself, you might say, ‘so far so good.’”  
  
“Well, ain’t that a relief, seein’ how I’ve been laid up here in less than two days.”  
  
Genji chuckles.  
  
“Genji,” Hanzo says, cutting in. “How is it that you live?”  
  
McCree picks up his cigarillo from the nightstand nearby, in an ashtray next to his mug. Judging by Genji’s silence, he settles in for a story.  
  
Genji bows his head. “I live because I did not die. Not that day. Not when they collected my broken body. Not when they laid me to rest at Shambali. The master monk there discovered my state, as if he knew my heart would still be beating even after they closed the lid on my tomb. He said the green dragonstone preserved me, as it has done for our ancestors.”  
  
“Shit,” McCree says, puffing.  
  
“But I while I was not dead, I was dying. While the stone preserved my life, it did nothing for my pain. Every hour, every minute, every second, I was in agony. Every step, I wanted to die. But with the master’s aid, he convinced me to find my way back to Earth. As you know, brother, I have spent many years there, before we revealed our existence.”  
  
McCree perks up at that.  
  
Genji continues, “You also know of my fondness for one of Earth’s most brilliant minds. And here on Hanamura, I no longer had anywhere else to turn.”  
  
A name springs to McCree’s mind. “Dr. Ziegler,” he whispers, the pieces locking into place. “You…”  
  
Genji’s brow falls, amused. “The Earth man has figured it out.”  
  
“She…,” McCree says, looking over his omnic parts. “She did this?”  
  
“Incredible,” Hanzo says. “That an Earth mind could conceive of this!”  
  
Genji sighs, solemn. “It was not easy. When she informed me she would have to replace over 90% of my body, I could not bear the news. I believed I would no longer be a man, but a machine without a soul. And despite her efforts, my Hanamurian body rejected it anyway. I rejected it. I died on the table, so she said.”  
  
“Sounds familiar,” McCree grumbles, rolling the cigarillo between his lips.  
  
Genji looks down into his palms. “But the dragonstone, brother. It showed me the truth, as it has tried to ever since I started my Journey. That while my body may deteriorate, I will never lose my soul. My soul that cries out to right our family’s wrongs, as it has always been! That wants to live, and live free, brother. Because of you. My death has freed us both from his corruption. That is why I forgive you for what you had to do.”  
  
“Genji,” Hanzo says, tears rolling down his cheeks.  
  
“Needless to say, Dr. Ziegler was quite shocked to find me walking about her morgue.”  
  
“And with some spooky green peepers, I take it,” McCree guesses.  
  
“You are perceptive, mister McCree. Shortly thereafter, I returned home, but not before placing a call on behalf of the doctor, who asked me to help you once I recovered.”  
  
“But now, Talon knows everything,” Hanzo says. “And it seems my father in his madness has no qualms about desecrating our traditions.”  
  
“Our time to confront Talon and the Dragon Lord shall soon come, brother. But first, I must fulfill my promise to Dr. Ziegler. Jesse McCree, will you accompany me to the Shambali Monastery?”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Hanzo knits his brow. “You wish for him to consult the omnic master.”  
  
Genji nods. “Indeed. The monk who cared for me. My original plan was to take you to him. Though you are not Shimada, I believe the master can also help you understand your Journey. He is the most knowledgeable about the true nature of the stones. He has guided countless Shimada to their awakening, including you, my brother.”  
  
“If that’s the case, then hell, I’m game. Sign me up,” McCree says.  
  
“Tch,” Hanzo says. “The monastery is a sacred place. The monks may not even allow an Earth person to set foot inside. Those omnics are programmed to serve the Dragon Lord. We may as well be delivering the red eye to his doorstep.”  
  
“That is where you are wrong, brother. Master Zenyatta is not so constrained by his programming as you believe, and he holds sway over his brothers and sisters. If it were otherwise, then he would have had ample opportunity to finish what you had started.”  
  
At that, Hanzo falls silent.  
  
In the next moment, Ana returns with a squeeze tube, and a strange-looking device that reminds McCree of a hot glue gun. She sits back down next to McCree and says, “Now hold still.”  
  
He shivers at the cold dab of paste from the tube. Then, goosebumps prickle him when she slowly runs the nozzle of the device over his wound. It buzzes as its warmth works on him, sealing up his flesh and raw nerves. In just half a minute, she announces, “There. All patched up.”  
  
McCree gives the muscle a test flex, amazed to find it not even sore. He turns over and bends his knee with the same result. Then, he throws his legs over the side of his cot and stands, testing his weight on it. “I’ll be damned,” he says. “You’ve got a magic touch, ma’am.”  
  
Ana waves him off. “Oh, it’s nothing.”  
  
“I’m serious,” McCree says, performing a shallow squat. “Feel as good as new. Ain’t Hanamurian tech grand.”  
  
“Then please put your pants back on, and prepare yourself,” Hanzo says. “We must make for Shambali, quickly.”  
  
McCree smirks, snatching up articles from his pile of things. “Alright, darlin’. In a Texas minute.”  
  
“Ah, the monastery,” Ana says. “I shall accompany you.”  
  
Fareeha says, “I will be your eyes in the sky. I can keep a lookout for Talon.”  
  
“No, my dear. You will remain here,” Ana says.  
  
Fareeha scoffs. “Mother, you know I can help you.”  
  
“And I know I can trust you to keep this place safe while I am away. I will not argue with you about this.”  
  
Fareeha huffs, grinding her jaw in frustration. “Mother.”  
  
“No, and that’s final. Don’t make me dose you with my tranquilizer, too.”  
  
Fareeha huffs again, biting her tongue. “Fine,” she grits out, spinning on her heel and leaving.  
  
“Honestly, I would prefer that both of you lay low for the time being,” Hanzo says to Ana.  
  
Genji stands from the cot. “We need a ride, however. Otherwise it may take us two days on foot. We do not have that kind of time.”  
  
Ana says, “My truck is ready to go. We can be there by the next dawn.”  
  
McCree snatches up his trousers and chaps and shimmies into them. “Then let’s mosey. Time’s a-wastin’.”

* * *

  
  
Ana’s truck, like all Hanamurian vehicles, do not have tires. Instead, they have round graviton generators at each of the four corners, which generates just enough lift to have them hover over roads. As they are still rare on Earth, Ana graciously allows him to take a photo before hopping in the cab. With everything that happened so far, and so quickly, it was easy for McCree to forget he was still on assignment.  
  
He also snaps photos of how Hanamura’s crystal spires glitter in the dark of night, and the rush and dazzle of innumerable cars floating over wide streets.  
  
“You should join McCree in the front,” Genji says to Hanzo, the former giving the latter a rough pat on the shoulder. Hanzo grumbles, but climbs into the passenger seat, with McCree in the middle, and Ana at the wheel. Genji leaps over into the truck bed as Ana starts and pulls them out and onto the street.  
  
“Howdy,” McCree says to Hanzo as his knee brushes up against his. It should not make McCree’s temperature rise in his cheeks as much as it does. Hanzo knits his brow in pure annoyance, and it makes his heart swell that much more. McCree starts to hum.  
  
“Hm hm hmm hmm, bottles o’ beer on the wall, hm hm hmm, bottles of beer…”  
  
“What is that infernal noise you are making?” Hanzo says.  
  
McCree winks at him. “Just singin’. You know, to pass the time. Since we’ll be stuck in here for a spell.”  
  
“I’d prefer the song of quiet contemplation.”  
  
McCree nods. “Okay. I can understand that. I mean, you just found out you didn’t murder your brother after all.”  
  
Hanzo pierces him with a mortified look.  
  
“Ain’t that right? I mean, he’s alive and well in the back. That’s gotta be weird. It’s a lot to think about. In a good way, I hope.”  
  
Hanzo sighs, looking out the window. He admits, “That is not entirely...untrue. This Genji, and the Genji of my memories. He is my brother, but not the brother I once knew. He was so carefree, buoyant, and often reckless. Now, his demeanor is hard and fierce, tempered like a fine blade.”  
  
Ana pipes up, saying, “He always had that indomitable spirit, Hanzo. That has not changed. You should be proud of him.”  
  
“Hn,” Hanzo mutters.  
  
Ana adds, “And you should not blame yourself. I know why you did it. It was not your fault.”  
  
“Enough,” Hanzo says. “It is my fault. Just because they were father’s orders, does not mean I was not the one who pushed him.”  
  
“Hang on,” McCree says. “You’re gonna have to fill a fella in here.”  
  
Hanzo shifts his eyes to glance over to him. “Since we must pass the time.”  
  
McCree feels him shift to sit up straight, then leans into McCree’s shoulder. McCree, for his part, fights an urge to thumb away the stray bangs folding across Hanzo’s brow. “I’m listenin’,” McCree says with unmasked tenderness.  
  
At that, Hanzo meets his eyes. He says, “My father. He ordered me to slay my brother. An order from the Dragon Lord cannot be refused. Beyond that, my father threatened to take away my home, my holdings, my future as his successor. ”  
  
“But Genji is my brother, and so I told him what father wanted. He-,” Hanzo swallows. “He agreed with his punishment. That he knew that this day would come, but to never trust my father would keep his word.”  
  
“Why did he want Genji dead?” McCree asks.  
  
“As Genji mentioned, and before we made ourselves known to Earth, he visited with your people to assess your people’s character and strength. My father only wanted to hear how your people and resources might be usefully exploited.”  
  
“Instead, Genji returned with an unquenchable admiration of your people. He openly contradicted father whenever the topic arose. He made frequent trips to Earth without permission, stealing away our technology to share, and to thwart our father’s designs.”  
  
“Including this here thing,” McCree says, pointing to his eye.  
  
“We will have to ask whether he knew it contained red dragonstone, but he no doubt figured it would vex father greatly to just have one of the pair go missing. Genji’s humor is that of a fox.”  
  
“So your father’s resentment just built up over time. A death of a thousand cuts.”  
  
Hanzo regards him. “An astute way to put it. Father never accepted Genji, not even when he was a boy. I believe it is because father never forgave him for the death of our mother. She died not long after he was born.”  
  
“Oh,” McCree says, the picture even clearer than before. “Long time to hang onto a grudge.”  
  
“I still wonder if the grudge was really for Genji. But if my father held any compassion, all traces of it died along with mother.”  
  
Ana hums, having listened in reverent silence. She says, “He wanted to get rid of Genji, but knew the outrage and loss of face that would ensue should he do it himself. I’ll never forget that day father summoned you. Your face afterward told me the whole story, Hanzo.”  
  
“Hey,” McCree says when he sees Hanzo’s expression darken. He chances resting his gloved hand atop Hanzo’s knee. He’s relieved when the latter does not bat him away. Instead, the darkness recedes, and Hanzo smiles.  
  
“I am glad,” he says, “to know that your people were worth it to him.”  
  
“And you?” McCree presses, curious. “Are we worth it to you?”  
  
“Truthfully, I blamed your people for what befell Genji. I used to think that if not for Earth, Genji might have been more obedient, and might not have pushed my Father’s patience so. Hence my disagreeableness when we first met.”  
  
“Well, can’t blame you there. I didn’t think too highly of you Hanamurians for a long time after what happened to my gang, and to me. A lot of my friends might still be alive, and I might still be a whole man, livin’ up the high life if not for your people coming down from the sky.”  
  
“But I have since realized my mistake.”  
  
“So have I, partner.”  
  
Hanzo looks over to him sharply. McCree ‘s throat runs dry, and he swallows thickly. He can’t believe himself. This is not why he made this trip. If he isn’t careful, he may drown in such beautiful, raging blue eyes.

"Jesse..." Hanzo starts.

“Well, isn’t this so very touching. I have to admit, this Earth fellow has made a decent enough impression, Hanzo. That he got you talking so much is a minor miracle. Even I couldn’t persuade you to tell me what was on your mind half the time," Ana says.  
  
“Please,” Hanzo says, turning away and rolling his eyes.  
  
McCree doesn't care.  He grins like a stupid fool.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big honking chap inc. Lots of shit happens

The truck slips through the dense cityscape and turn along a bend toward the foot of the mountains. Ana sets on the high beams as they plunge into the darkness of the misty wood, and the stone pavement of the city streets transitions rapidly to fine grit. The dizzying heights of skyscrapers are replaced by just as dizzying conifers, reminding McCree of the great redwoods back home. A heavy, pre-dawn mist blankets the pass between the thick trunks, and the road angles with the rise in terrain. Eventually, they rise above the musty loam of the forest bed and onto the dry, craggy foot of the mountain.

Eddies swirl from the cigarillo at his lip as a cool breeze wafts through the truck cabin. The song of quiet contemplation rings loud between them, and Hanzo either does not notice or does not care that McCree’s hand is still resting on his knee.

Dawn peeks over the horizon, washing the mountainside in purple, then gold strips of sunlight. The sky takes on a rosy pink, accentuating a view as that takes McCree’s breath away. Not just of the city in the distance below, but of a vast palace carved into the snowy mountainside. The He begrudgingly removes his hand from Hanzo to pull out a tablet for a few quick photos, despite Hanzo’s grumbling about him acting like a ‘damned tourist’.

McCree’s excitement boils over into a low-grade panic as the truck chugs along on what is no better than an access road, without even a token railing along the edge of the cliffs. Ana, however, makes expert hairpin turns, threading past a line of tall statues of men and women, some in armor, some in robes, their dignified faces angled up toward Heaven. Great pennants of green, blue, red, and gold flutter and snap in the relentless wind.

Mercifully, the narrow road widens into a plateau as they approach the monastery. Ana stops the truck at the bottom of a long, long staircase arched over a wide crevasse. The monastery itself sits high on a peak on the opposite side. Statues of cross-legged omnics in meditative repose adorn the structure, with more looking inward along the staircase.

Ana parks, and Hanzo pops his door open. As he slips out of the cab behind Hanzo, McCree wonders if his good leg might even survive the steep climb, let alone his newly-mended one, and especially after sitting for so long. He makes another shallow squat, and shakes out his knee. It feels as if he had never even been shot. It’s eerie.

Genji leaps out of the truck bed, stopping him and Hanzo with a hand up. “I did not know at the time,” he says. When McCree shoots him a puzzled look, he amends, “The eye. I did not know at the time that my father was manufacturing red dragonstone.”

“Ah,” McCree says, rubbing the back of his neck. “So you could hear us.”

Genji nods. “Let us proceed.”

They head toward the bottom of the steps, where two humanoid omnics stand guard. His stomach turns in knots as they near the cliffside, especially as the wind picks up as though the long drop were trying to suck him in. He holds his hat in place, and his serape flies about him wildly.

“Halt there,” the omnics say in their stilted, digital voices.

The omnics approach, with a set of prayer beads set about their necks. They bow. McCree finds the calmness of their voices unsettling as they say, “Please state the purpose of your visit. Unauthorized access is prohibited.”

Genji steps forward. “We are here to see the master.”

The omnics’ eyes glow as they scan him. “Master Genji Shimada. Your access is...denied.” They do the same for Hanzo, who shifts uncomfortably. “And Master Hanzo Shimada. Access...denied.”

“I knew this was foolish,” Hanzo spits.

The omnics scan McCree. “You are not Hanamurian. Please move away.”

“Uh-uh. We’re here to see the bot in charge here,” McCree says.

“Access denied.”

“Then tell Master Zenyatta to meet us out here,” Genji demands.

“Unable to comply. Please step away.”

“ _Kuso…_ ” Genji hisses

“That is enough, my brothers.”

A gentle, robotic voice calls out to them. McCree tips up the brim of his hat up to see an omnic descend from the long row of steps towards them. This one appears unlike any omnic McCree had ever seen. Unlike others, this one does not walk, but floats, gliding through the air as though a cloud with legs crossed. A rosary pulses and orbits his neck and thrums with mysterious energy.

“Master,” Genji says, bowing deeply at the waist.

“Master, huh,” McCree observes.

“It is incredible to see you again, my pupil. I am delighted at your success,” the omnic says.

“All of it thanks to you, Master,” Genji answers.

“And who have you brought with you?”

“My brother, Hanzo.”

“Ah, Master Hanzo. I am pleased to see you again as well.”

He grunts in reply.

The omnic’s attention darts over their shoulders behind them. He says, “Ana Amari.”

“ _Ahlan_ ,” she says.

The monk drops his chin in a slow, unhurried nod. “An honor. Your guidance made firm foundation for their Journeys.”

Finally, the monk turns to McCree.

“Name’s Jesse McCree. From Earth,” McCree informs him.

“Ah, an Earth human?” the monk says. He floats over to him, coming in close to scrutinize him. Though his eyes are static, McCree can tell the monk finds a particular fascination with his prosthetics. “Yet you have a Shimada eye,” he observes.

“Yes, master,” Genji explains. “And he is here for your wisdom.”

The omnic pulls back. “A wise decision. Most delightful. They call this unit Tekhartha Zenyatta. Come. I have granted you access.” The monk twirls in an about face, and begins heading back up the steps.

Ana says, “You go on ahead. No offense, but these kinds of places unsettle me. Too quiet, you know? But I will keep a lookout.”

“You sure?” McCree asks.

She chuckles. “More than sure.”

“With her watching our backs, then we have nothing to fear,” Genji says, stepping forward. The other two omnics stand down and step aside, allowing the four to progress up the long steps. McCree gulps down as much oxygen as he can from the thin air, but he still feels a touch light-headed by the time they reach the grand archway of the temple. He pinches off his cigarillo and flicks it over the side of the steps.

They pass under the archway and into a vestibule, then through a sanctum as silent as the grave, lit by cold blue sconces and natural sunlight filtering in from glass domes cut into the ceiling. A bevy of omnics tend to tasks at computer panels, as well as mundane activities such as sweeping the hundreds of square meters of stone flooring. “Are there only omnics here?” he whispers.

“Indeed, Mister McCree, save for when we have visitors like yourselves. All the monks here are omnic. Since our creation many centuries ago, we have been caretakers of both the Shimada ancestors, as well as Hanamura’s long history. I was among the first of such creations.”

“Wow,” McCree says. “Well, I don’t care what you are, so long as you can explain what’s going on in my head.”

“It will be my pleasure. It is most intriguing that an alien species can also embark on the Journey. This will also be added to our history.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Then stay awhile, and listen.”

Zenyatta brings them to an open atrium just inside a circular balcony. Curtains sway in a dry, gentle breeze, the mountain’s chilly breath making a perfect counterbalance to the warm basking of sunlight.

Genji lowers himself to the ground with one leg. McCree grunts as he bends at the knees and flops back onto his backside.

Hanzo, however, remains straight as an arrow. “I will wait for you in the vestibule.”

“Master Hanzo, please. It may benefit you to join us as well,” Zenyatta says.

“I have already completed my Journey.”

Genji says, “So have I, brother. But I wish to listen on behalf of our friend.”

Hanzo’s gaze falls to the floor, clearly wrestling with himself.

McCree says, “C’mon, partner. Couldn’t hurt. I’d appreciate it if you stuck around.”

Hanzo sighs. He rejoins them, kneeling next to McCree.

“Thanks,” McCree says to him, but frowns when Hanzo looks away.

“Good,” Zenyatta says, clasping his metal hands together. “You gentlemen walk a well-worn path, treaded by the many generations who have come before you. They struggled, and they suffered as you have, even after their awakenings. They have also known peace and self-knowledge the dragonstones bring. I have guided many travelers unto their awakening, and gave solace to those who fell blind. I have observed their trials, recorded their experiences. Though I am omnic, I have come to understand the nature of each stone.”

He rotates his head to look at Genji. “Master Genji. You took the green dragonstone. The East. The Dawn. When I first heard of your fall, I had my doubts about your demise. You see, those who take the dragonstone take on an uncanny resilience. They live unusually long lives, and can survive even the most grievous wounds. For you see, the green dragonstone is the very essence of life. You awakened the moment you discovered what it means to live.”

“Yes, Master,” Genji says, bowing. “It is as you say.”

“Master Hanzo,” Zenyatta addresses, turning. “You took on the blue. The South. The Midnight. A most punishing, arduous stone to Journey with, but perhaps the most personally fulfilling. It is an intensely emotional Journey, and its darkness can overwhelm and sweep away those who lack the discipline to endure its relentless force. It is the very essence of depth. You awakened the moment you discovered what it means to feel.”

Hanzo bows his head, but he does not speak a word of protest. McCree gazes at him with a swell of admiration.

He snaps his head forward when Zenyatta calls out, “Journeyman McCree.”

“Yep,” McCree answers, feeling ridiculous at having done so. He can almost see a smile forming on the omnic’s static downturned lips.

“What shade do you possess?”

“The red.”

“The West. The Dusk. Fascinating. And what have you heard of the red dragonstone?” Zenyatta asks him.

“Uh, that it’s practically synonymous with death,” McCree answers, glancing over to Hanzo.

Zenyatta nods. “A misconception that is all too common, though understandable. It is also common for Hanamurians to fear what they do not understand. Therefore, the misconception persists.”

McCree quirks a brow. “Same with our people.”

“Do not be ashamed. For a time, I, too, believed the same thing, that it was a stone of only destruction and terror, as our history has borne out. But my curiosity proved stronger than my fear. I reviewed the history of the stone, and I came to an epiphany I will share with you.”

“Originally, the red dragonstone grew from Hanamurian hunting grounds. For many generations, the stone was used this way. As our society grew more complex, the stone found a renewed purpose in law enforcement. In fact, for centuries, it was a common symbol of this profession.”

“No kiddin’,” McCree says, thoughtfully.

“Shh,” Hanzo hisses. McCree huffs.

Zenyatta ignores the interruption and continues, “Yet as Hanamura advanced, times of strife, warfare, and bloodshed accompanied our rise. During such times, one Dragon Lady chose the red. With her, the river of history changed course. It was then the Shimada - and the people of Hanamura - came to realize the stone’s power in eliminating one’s personal and political enemies. Since her example, the Dragon Lords and Ladies who have chosen the red had similar aims in mind.”

“And so it took on the reputation of death,” McCree says.

Zenyatta regards him. “Precisely, Earthen one. It is also an omen of change. You are the most unusual of souls to grace our halls, as you are not even Hanamurian, let alone Shimada. I do not have experience with your ancestors from which to draw from. Complicating matters, the Shimada of ambition who took the red, and whom I have counseled, have been few.”

McCree tenses, unsure of whether he was being accused.

Zenyatta then says, “But I sense that you are neither ambitious, nor despotic. And if the stone responds to you, as it has done for these two, then it gladdens me to know it is not the stone’s nature which corrupts. That is up to the individual who Journeys with it.”

“Aw, well thank the Savior above for that,” McCree heaves with a sigh. A low chuckle escapes Genji.

Zenyatta steeples his hands. “But from what I can determine, Journeyman McCree, there is a common element to the stone’s many faces during our history. Not of death, but of victory. To succeed in one’s pursuits, despite the weakness of others, or those of your own.”

McCree bows his head, humbled by the insight. He shivers when Zenyatta then says, “It is my belief, that to awaken it is to know the meaning of triumph.”

McCree blows out a long breath. “Or else I go blind in this here socket. Well, depth perception is overrated, anyway.”

Hanzo frowns at him. “You have given up?”

“Well, not really, I just...it’s a lot to think about,” McCree says. “And it means that Talon lady found her meaning, or whatever. Seems like everyone’s got a leg up here except for poor ol’ Jesse.”

“Have patience,” Hanzo counsels. “Your Journey is your own. Everyone’s is unique. I believe you will succeed, and be a better man for it.”

“Brother, it is refreshing to hear you speak with such confidence,” Genji observes. Meanwhile, McCree turns, hiding a flush in his cheeks.

Zenyatta says, “And with such wisdom. Indeed, Journeyman McCree. It is normal to despair while on your Journey. Yet with all Journeys, the most important asset to cultivate is hope. Hope is the source of all stones. Your day will come.”

“If you all say so.” McCree hoists himself up to stand. “Speakin’ o’ hope, what do we do about the Widowmaker in the meantime?” To Genji, “And the Dragon Lord?”

“You will do nothing. You will forget your duty to Overwatch, and leave this planet,” Hanzo says, rising.

McCree turns to him, caring little about the hurt he knows his showing on his face. “And you can put that suggestion right up where the sun don’t shine. You think Talon won’t follow me back to Earth? Besides,” He looks between the brothers. “I already feel like dispensing some long overdue justice to the man up there.” McCree points towards Heaven. “It puts me in a right lather to know everything he’s done to you.”

“It is not your concern. This is between family,” Hanzo insists.

“And I’m tellin’ you, you’re gonna have to put one of them arrows between my eyes if you think for one second I’m walkin’ away from this. Away from your side. I’m in this with you, whether you agree with it or not!”

Hanzo regards him, his expression curling into a deep frown. “You are such a brazen idiot!”

“Perhaps we should not send him away,” Genji says. “Amélie is very cunning. He may be safer with us.”

“Thank you, Genji. I’d say I’ve got best damn bodyguards in the universe standing right beside me. Besides, I can handle myself. You never know when you’re gonna need some good ol’ fashioned country ingenuity.”

Hanzo’s nostrils flare. “Fine!” he barks.

McCree turns from him. Not because of his snappy tone, but because he detects a low rumbling in the air. The sound grows. Jet engines. Hanzo picks it up, too, evidenced by the look of astonishment he exchanges with him. A blast of wind rushes over the balcony, kicking up a maelstrom of dust and snow, and the curtains swing nearly horizontal. The jet engines of a transport descends into view, and the ship rotates until it reveals the back door of its hold. There, a predator lurks, with the red baubles of her helmet gleaming, and with rifle aimed.

“Get down!”

The instant rush of adrenaline makes McCree unsure of who spoke, whether it was his own voice trying to cut through the engine noise. But the next thing he knows, he is on the ground covering his head with laced fingers. He jumps when when the crack of a rifle echoes through the high walls of the monastery, and echoes against the mountainside.

Hanzo returns fire, ducking low as his bowstring thrums with a loosed arrow. With a sweep of his arm, Genji tosses a bevy of throwing stars. The transport turns to break off, and the projectiles embed themselves into its thick hull as it disappears from view.

McCree stands and draws Peacekeeper. He exchanges a look with Hanzo, who nocks another arrow.

“Master! Master!” Genji shouts.

McCree whips around, and sees the cause of Genji’s alarm. The sniper’s bullet has bored a clean hole through Zenyatta’s torso. Sparks fly, and electricity arcs across the wound. The monk floats to the ground and onto his back, his limbs spasming.

“Get away from the balcony!” Hanzo cries. Genji ignores him, falling to his knees beside the wounded monk.

“Worry...-ot, my pupil,” Zenyatta says, his robotic voice shorting out as well. “-Uo must...flee. Lord Shima-ah-da, he is here. I can-n-no longer pr-vent monks...”

Hanzo growls, “Genji!”

Genji shouts, “We cannot leave him!”

“G-go…” Zenyatta croaks out. The terrible pops and whistles of gunfire continue to disrupt the serene milieu of the monastery.

“Master…” Genji clenches his fists. His eyes flash and burn. Suddenly, a yell erupts from him “ _Kuso!_ ”

“Genji!” Hanzo calls, but his brother is already dashing back through the sanctum, bristling with rage.

“Come on,” McCree says. They pursue the fleet-footed cyborg as well as they can. The omnics going about their tasks suddenly bolt upright. A second later, they abandon their tasks, and draw weapons-- batons, swords, even their own rosaries activate as they move to apprehend them.

Genji, however, cries out as he alternates between slashing through and peppering the advancing omnics with throwing stars on his way to the exit. Hanzo covers his brother’s back with well-struck arrows, while McCree covers their own retreat with ample rounds of hot lead. Metal and sparks shower the stone floors as the monks crash and break apart. McCree tries not to dwell on how wrong the violence feels in such a tranquil place.

By the time they reach the mouth of the high arch and the top of the long staircase, McCree takes a moment to reload, and to assess the scene below. Genji bends low with his short blade drawn in battle stance at the bottom. Ahead of him, the Widowmaker stands, with her rifle aimed squarely at him. Behind her, not just one, but three transports hover over the dusty plateau, having brought a veritable army of black-clad Talon with them. The two omnic guards from before flank her, and behind her a throng of Talon thugs stand ready. Bolstering them further, McCree recognizes the shape of several Bastion units towering over them. These, however, were not the basic rust buckets he remembers from Earth, but sleek, pearl-plated super units, whose gatling guns bristled with pulse energy instead of steel cartridges. _Heaven-grade_ , he concludes.

“There you are,” she coos as McCree and Hanzo join Genji with their weapons aimed. “That is far enough. We have cornered that bothersome crone of yours. Lower your weapons.”

“I will _never_ forgive you,” Genji spits, flaring green with rage. “There was no reason, none at all, to destroy him!”

“Are you really that torn up about such a tiresome piece of junk? Ancient omnics like him should have been rendered for scrap long ago, especially when they begin to malfunction and allow Earth rats wander where they like.”

“They found us when they scanned me,” McCree says. He hates the smirk that crosses the Widowmaker’s lips.

“This is the last time I will ask. Surrender your weapons and come quietly.”

McCree, however, raises Peacekeeper to line up with her gut. “Come on, now. We both know that you don’t have her.”

“ _Pardonnez-moi?_ Are you willing to bet her life?”

“Ain’t no gamble. I know a bluff when I see one. Ana is a resourceful woman. She had your job once. She’s the original. She’s probably lining up your head in her crosshairs as we speak, so why don’t you call off your wolves so we can settle this peaceably.”

The Widowmaker grins. “Then you also know it was I who ended her legend.”

Genji advances, while Hanzo raises his bow. A blue spark ignites his eyes. “Do not make us end yours, and your misery, Amélie, here and now. You know the strength of your army is meaningless against us.”

Her grin fades to a sneer as she steps back. “We shall see. Seize them.” Talon about her dive forward.

“Get back!”

Suddenly, a winged shadow swoops straight up from the cliffside. Though obscured by the sun above, they appear human, but with wings sprouting from their back, and with contrails pouring from boosters that keep the newcomer suspended in the air. A beaked helmet obscures their identity, but the figure makes their intentions clear when a projectile shoots from their wrist toward the outfit of Talon agents. The projectile bursts in a concussive blast, throwing several agents off and screaming down toward their rocky doom.

“Take that!” the flying figure shouts. In their other hand, a rocket launcher fires a round from the thick barrel. It collides with the cliff face, a chunk of which crumbles and produces a thick plume of dust. Another rocket shoots and slams into the road, and another, throwing the scene into chaos as Talon flee for their lives.

“Gentlemen! Keep your heads down!” the figure calls. McCree swears he recognizes that commanding voice.

“Fareeha!” he calls. She salutes him. Hanzo blanches, wide-eyed.

They duck when she swoops down and shouts, “Rocket barrage, incoming!”

Flaps and flanges open across her shoulders, arms, and torso, releasing a thunderous payload of short-range missiles that burst in the air and along the ground. The staircase shifts as sharp cracks appear and more loose boulders tumble down the mountain, and a storm cloud of dust envelops the awful destruction. All but one of the transports peel away as the remaining few Bastion units transform and return fire. Fareeha dashes and dives out from the hail of lasers streaming out from the cloud cover.

“God _damn_ ,” McCree remarks. McCree throws his serape around his nose and mouth as rockets continue to boom and thunder. He squints as he glances up toward their well-meaning ally. “Her tactics sure ain’t what I’d call subtle!”

“Reckless” Hanzo hisses.

Meanwhile, Widowmaker shields herself with an arm as the Talon behind her are laid to waste. “I will not be stopped, especially not by buzzing pests.” Widowmaker grins, and chooses the moment to retreat, peppering assault rounds at the three men.

“She is getting away!” Hanzo shouts as she disappears into the dust.

“ _Ryuujin no ken o kure!_ ” Genji, in a blur of swinging metal, deflects the bullets with his long sword, then lunges forward with a green dragon twisting like a vine about his shoulders. The omnic monks block his path, and he is forced to dispatch them first.

“Fareeha! Look out!” McCree shouts when the dark shadow of a transport rises from the dust, and with the Widowmaker lurking in the door of its hold as before.

A burst of purple mist erupts in Fareeha’s face. She sputters and drops sharply, and becomes a sitting duck for the rifle round that rips a hole through their shoulder. She tumbles like an falcon being shot from the air, slapping her palm against the wound to stanch the fluid and electrical sparks that pour from her armor. The booster on that side puffs and begins to peter out. With its remaining pressure, she is forced to the ground, now dotted with craters and wounded as the haze fades. She lands hard in a fit of coughing.

McCree flinches, rubbing his eye. He thinks it’s the dust, until the red veil descends. The implant spasms, and he hunches over.

The transport lowers, and the Widowmaker leaps from the hold to land next to her. Her left eye gleams a ruby red, like that of a siren light. The dust continues to thin out, and Bastion units aim their turret barrels squarely at her. Fareeha attempts to raise her launcher, but yelps when Widowmaker pins her wrist down with a heel. In a violent motion, Widowmaker rips off her helmet, grabs a fistful of black hair, and presses a blade to her throat. “Well, I suppose we shall settle for the brash young daughter,” she says. Fareeha struggles, but the bite of the blade and the rough grip in her hair discourages her. To the three men, the Widowmaker says, “Put down your weapons.”

“Damn it,” McCree hisses, fighting through the overwhelming urge to just shoot. _Shoot._ He raises Peacekeeper, his hand shaking. “End of the line...I will overcome you,” he mutters but a spasm in his eye forces him to turn away, and his mind blanks.

_Not yet._

“Jesse,” Hanzo whispers.

McCree flinches at his name. “I’m alright,” McCree tells him, but the shudder in his breath belies him.

Next time he opens his eyes, he already sees Hanzo lowering his bow. Genji, too, hesitates. “Where is Ana?” the latter asks.

“I see you,” the Widowmaker coos, grinning up toward the monastery.

A blowgun hisses. But this time, the Widowmaker flattens herself, and the needle sails over her. When she rises, she draws the edge of her blade against Fareeha’s throat close enough to draw blood.

“Come out! Do that again, and I will stick her like a pig!”

“You foolish girl, Fareeha.”

Ana, with her blue cowl draped about her shoulders, approaches down the cracked steps with her arms raised. The men part to allow her through.

“I just wanted to help, Mama,” Fareeha answers.

“Well, you certainly fouled it up. I almost had a clean shot, then you went and made a wreck of it all!”

Widowmaker smirks. “Well, now that your failure is obvious, you will all throw down your weapons.”

With the Bastion units looming, McCree shakes his head, pushing away his disorientation enough to spin Peacekeeper until it stops at a dangle from his forefinger. He squats and sets it on the ground. Hanzo huffs, following suit as he deposits both his bow and quiver. Ana sets down both her rifle, blow gun, as well as a knife concealed at her ankle.

Genji, however, still crouches low in a defensive stance, with blade drawn.

“Genji,” Ana hisses. “Please.” The distress in her voice persuades him, and he drops his two blades and throwing stars in a grunt of anger. The green dragon swirls, then fades.

The surviving Talon agents swarm them, along with several omnic monks. They stun each of the men with a blow to the stomach, then throw each of them face first into the ground. They set about hog-tying them, with wrists and ankles bound together behind their back.

“Bring them, as well as their effects. His Lordship wishes to have his pick, so keep them alive, _s'il vous plaît._ ”

Without ceremony, the men are dragged along the rugged ground, and McCree winces as hard rocks knock the wind out of him and leave a wake of scrapes and bruises against the side of his body.

He hears Widowmaker say, “I should just shoot out your last good eye, but I want you to see the agony on your daughters face when you choose either to wither up here, or throw yourself from the mountain because of her mistake. Leave her here, and destroy her vehicle.”

With that, the Widowmaker raises the blade from Fareeha’s neck and plunges it into the latter’s other shoulder. Fareeha cries out, and yet another shower of hydraulics and electrical sparks ensues. With the knife left in, Widowmaker rises to follow behind her henchmen as they load McCree and the two brothers.

“I will kill you,” McCree promises. “You- you harpy! You _viper!_ ”

“Alive. He does not have to be speaking,” Widowmaker orders before disappearing into the transport hold and up into the cockpit.

Hanzo starts, “Don’t you dare- ugh!”

He and the brothers are tossed into the hold like sacks of potatoes. McCree lets fly a long string of curses, and only stops his railing when a Talon agent brings the heel of his boot down and knocks him out cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I blended Zeny and Mondatta here a bit. I hope that is not too jarring, but I've been pretty loosey-goosey here with the canon so far anyway I figure!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updaaaaaate

Cold, eroded stone walls. Musty stench. Throbbing head. It wasn’t the first time Jesse McCree’s ever found himself in similar shape inside of a cramped holding cell. Last time was a day-long stay at a county hotel over a nicked pack of fine cigars, and before the Deadlock gang got their hooks into him.  
  
Though that time, he had far fewer welts and bruises to show for it. He braces as another set of knuckles cracks across his cheek.  
  
Better hospitality back then, for sure.  
  
“Filthy Earth rodent,” the Talon thug says. “You think you can come up here and waltz around with that stolen bit of property there, and not incur the Dragon Lord’s wrath? You and your species bring punishment on yourselves.”  
  
McCree spits out a measure of blood pooling on his tongue. “You done?”  
  
A slam of a fist into his gut answers him. They had stripped him from the waist up, leaving nothing to mitigate the blow. He slumps, breathless.  
  
The Talon goons slam his cell door and leave him to gasp and suffer with his wounds, yet he does not dwell on his pain. It’s the furthest from his mind while he wonders after Hanzo. And Genji. Then Ana and Fareeha. A wave of dread worsens the sickness in his pulverized belly. He not even a vague clue about where he is, either. The craggy walls of a deep, dark caverns of some sort surround him, with a distant and incessant drip drip of foul moisture.  
  
He staggers up, clawing on top of a creaky, sagging cot. It struggles to support him as he flops on his back, wincing from his abuse. He rubs his right eye, cursing.  
  
“Fat help you’ve been,” he mutters.  
  
He shifts, feeling something jab at his backside. Suddenly, his hand flies to his pocket. He prays it survived: his tablet. His heart drops at the massive crack across its screen, but hope swells when it lights up. It flickers as it struggles to keep a consistent picture, but the gray attachment still blinks. He opens the comm application.  
  
“Hanzo,” he whispers.  
  
Silence.  
  
“Hanzo!”  
  
No reply. He curses, letting the tablet slip from his fingers to rest against his chest. He swallows thickly.  
  
“...Jesse?”  
  
McCree jumps, fumbling with the tablet as Hanzo’s voice comes through: “Can you hear me?”  
  
McCree grins. “I can, God bless it.” He chuckles, teetering on the edge of delirium.  
  
“How are you doing this?”  
  
“They didn’t find my tablet. She’s a little worse for wear, but thank goodness you plugged this puppy in.” He frowns, sobering. “Took my damn smokes, though. Where they keepin’ you, partner?”  
  
“They have me detained in my former quarters. An insult.”  
  
“And Genji?”  
  
“I am not sure.” A heavy sigh comes through. “I am deeply worried. Where are you?”  
  
“Hell if I know. Some kind of dungeon by the look and smell of it.”  
  
“Yes, of course. You must be somewhere within the foundation of Shimada castle. A prison was dug there during politically troubled times.”  
  
“Figures that Shimada Castle would have something like that. Heaven’s got to have its Underworld, after all.”  
  
“How rosy.”  
  
“Seeing as I’ve already been close enough to Hell and back, it better be. We’ll find a way out of this, mi amigo.”  
  
“Your unflagging spirit is admirable. Naive, but admirable, _amigo_.”  
  
McCree’s sore body, or maybe it was his exhaustion, or a combination-- but he frowns, sighing. “Yeah, well, maybe I should’ve been smarter and listened to you.”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“Gotten the hell out of dodge anyway I could. Maybe never even come here. Might have saved you the heap of trouble.”  
  
“You cannot undo the past. I know this truth better than anyone.”  
  
“I reckon you got a point there. Sorry about all of this, anyway.”  
  
A beat passes, enough to make McCree wonder whether the connection cut off. But finally Hanzo says, “I am not upset with you. It defies reason, but I am...glad that you came to Hanamura. Despite our circumstances.”  
  
At that, McCree smiles, and his pain recedes. “Well damn, darlin’. I admit, I’ve had a hell of a time. I think maybe it’s all been worth it to get to know a fella like you.”  
  
“A fella like me?” Hanzo repeats.  
  
“I take it back. There ain’t _nobody_ like you. In all the blasted universe.”  
  
“Hn. I beg to differ.”  
  
“How you figure?”  
  
“We come from such distant planets and different cultures, but I can no longer deny an affinity. I cannot explain it, except that perhaps _you_ are a ‘fella’ like me.”  
  
McCree grimaces. “Well, now I’m beggin’ to differ on that one. Maybe if I were Hanamurian, this eye would work. Could have helped prevent this mess. I’d have been able to save Ana and Fareeha.”  
  
“Nonsense. Even Genji and I were powerless in the end.”  
  
“Hanzo, let’s be honest. I’m just some lower lifeform who’s got no business having the kind of magic you all dabble in. I’m just a monkey with a stupid buckle and a six-shooter. Maybe I don’t want to have anythin’ to do with this anymore. Same as it ever was, same as it ever will be.”  
  
McCree interprets Hanzo’s silence as agreement until the latter says, “Since we are being honest, if you were truly unworthy, the stone would not even speak to you in the first place.  Is that not true?”  
  
McCree’s mouth hangs open as he digests this. He shuts, then opens his mouth. Words fail to form.  
  
Hanzo continues, “Yet this kind of thinking is why you may still fail your Journey. Then our ‘magic’ as you call it, would truly be wasted. That would be...disappointing.”  
  
“Hanzo…”  
  
“Your receiving the dragonstone may have been by mere accident, yet I cannot help but wonder if it was not.”  
  
“Hold on.”  
  
“What is-,”  
  
“ _Shh_.”  
  
McCree quickly turns off and pockets the device when he detects heavy footsteps shuffling along the corridor outside his cell. The bolts on his door slide back with a sharp clang, and opens to reveal a duo of Talon thugs.  
  
“His Lordship demands your presence. You will come without protest.”  
  
“Not even a little protest? How about a ‘fuck you’?”  
  
He expects the fist that winds up and slams into his sternum. As he doubles over, the Talon agent says, “Shut up and move, or we can drag you by your ankles, Earth scum.”  
  
McCree winces, quivering as he rises to his feet. With the wind knocked out of him, he staggers forward in compliance while his lungs reinflate.  
  
They finish their ascent along a long spiral of stairs, and he winces again when the brightness of the mid-morning sun hurts his human eye. As he adjusts, he notices faces rubber-necking out of every open stall and window as they they parade him through Heaven’s commons, and toward the soaring peak of Shimada Castle. Despite his circumstances, takes the opportunity to marvel at the bookstores, arcades, and ramen shops that line the stone streets. A miniature city flying over a city.  
  
The Talon guard push and shove him forward when he lingers too long. The heels of his boots scrape against the gravel path. They proceed inside castle grounds, passing by rosy pink trees and stone gardens. Stone lanterns dot the corners of every walkway and set of stairs, their low flames flickering in a muted glow.  
  
The open gates of the castle hang wide, swallowing him into a cavern of polished wood and fine reed matting. An astonishing, vast mural adorns the upper wall, depicting four dragons: a green serpent at three o’clock, a blue at six, a red at nine, and a golden dragon at twelve. In the center, a brilliant flare of white, like that of the sun breaking between a patch of clouds. The striking, brilliant picture overhangs the grim and bleak scene below it.  
  
McCree’s heart flips over. There, Hanzo slumps on his knees, with and Genji to his right. Both have their hands and ankles lashed behind their backs. The Widowmaker stands before them, her arms crossed. The thugs push McCree forward to Hanzo’s left, and he lands hard on his knees. In the next second, his own arms and feet ache as he, too, is restrained.  
  
“Jesse,” Hanzo says. McCree glances over, and finds Hanzo looking him over, and at what must be a gruesome sight if his lip looked as swollen as if felt.  
  
“Don’t you worry, darlin’,” McCree says.  
  
“Be silent.”  
  
He looks up to the Widowmaker, cold and wicked. She adds, “And await his Lordship.”  
  
A beat later, mechanical whirs and heavy thumps resound throughout the vast enclosure. Heavenly Bastion units appear from the doorway. Between them, they guard an aged man, swathed in a golden robe with a train of silk flowing behind him. A loose bun suspends tresses of his ivory mane, and a full white beard carpets his chin and cheeks. He holds a curious staff in hand, with suspended electronic strips rotating in orbit about its head.  
  
But none is more curious than the void of his irises, jet black like spent coals against the stark white of his eyes. McCree shivers at the sight.  
  
Leading with the foot of his staff, the black-eyed man and the pearl omnics descend from the short staircase and onto the reed matting. The omnics’ clattering bulk shudders with each heavy step, and the ground trembles in their wake. At a leisurely pace, he and his guard stop next to the Widowmaker.  
  
“They are all here?” he asks.  
  
“Yes, my lord,” the Widowmaker replies.  
  
“You have done so well, Amelie. The last time my fortune has been this great was when I met you,” he says, his voice warm, dignified, and smooth.  
  
“It was my pleasure to bring you this joy, _mi amor_.” She touches his cheek, and kisses him.  
  
McCree tastes bile in the back of his throat. He half-expected a gruff and bitter man, not the picture of sugar-tongued serenity before him. Somehow, it made him that much more offensive to his sensibilities.  
  
“And so you have brought me my dissembling cubs. I have not one, but two sons who give me nothing but disappointment. But more offensive than that is the telltale stench of Earth. It pains me to have such a creature here, defiling the halls of our clan with his very presence,” the Dragon Lord says. “But by some convergence of chance, you possess the red dragonstone. Inactive, as to be expected. Yet it matters not. I will have it either way.”  
  
Hanzo pipes up. “Father, it is blasphemy to take the implants of another, no matter who they are.”  
  
“Please, my boy,” the Dragon Lord replies. “I am the Lord of all Hanamura and its dominion. There is no law nor scripture that prohibits me from taking what I desire. If you were truly as loyal a son as I hoped, you would offer your awakened eyes to me without hesitation.”  
  
“This not only defiles all our traditions, Father,” Genji adds. “But you are acting out wishful thinking!”  
  
“I no longer care for the counsel of a wild, insolent demon. I should take yours, just to make up for every torment you brought me. But a long, hardy life would not benefit me, if it means having to endure it with you. Therefore no matter what I choose, I will have them cut out. You do not deserve the dragon’s favor. From what Amelie tells me, you are no longer even of flesh and blood. Not even a man.”  
  
Bile rises in McCree’s throat. Genji retorts, “The green cares not, Father.”  
  
“How ironic, then, that your life will soon be cut short.”  
  
The Dragon Lord tilts his chin.  
  
“On the other hand, the heart of the sea would allow me to overcome all my troubles. With the overwhelming force of your spirit dragons, Hanzo, I could sweep aside every obstacle like a raging storm.”  
  
“Father, please…” Hanzo starts.  
  
“You ain’t gonna place even one finger on ‘im. Either of ‘em. Not while I’m still breathin’.” The statement leaps from McCree’s throat, half on impulse, but full of malice.  
  
The Dragon Lord chuckles. He says, “So the rat says to the dragon. Now, we come to a prize I have mourned as missing for so many years. The others are powerful, indeed. But the red...the red holds the power of fear itself. It is the king of all other jewels. I know that this, even with the others placed before me, this is the stone I should have taken! Not the useless, feeble power of the gold, but the one whose cruel essence aligns with my own.”  
  
Bursting from his lips, Hanzo says, “What you speak is pure madness. This is why the gold rejected you. What makes you think the red will grant you the respect that the gold did not?”  
  
“We will just have to see, won’t we? Better than to have it languish within an inferior species.”  
  
“Do not harm him! I do not care if you are the Dragon Lord, and my father!” Hanzo shouts, struggling against his bonds.  
  
The Dragon Lord chuckles low, then builds into a full belly laugh. He replies, “Hanzo. I had no idea your tastes were so...exotic. Add it to the list of disappointments I must endure. May your ancestors forgive you for defiling your noble heart with concern for a lesser being.”  
  
Hanzo grunts. “At least I still have my heart. The only thing shameful here is that this lesser being, as you call him, has shown me this truth, where my own father could not! I can scarcely imagine what our departed kinsmen must think about the heresy you have uttered in these halls.”  
  
McCree doesn’t bother to fight the blush that fills to bursting his already flushed skin. It ignites a blaze of fury. He shuts his eyes, and pulls against his restraints, his metal wrist enduring the effort, but his flesh one does not.  
  
Meanwhile, the Dragon Lord says, “They surely see you as I do, Hanzo. Weak. But you misunderstand me. It may surprise you to hear that there is one thing about Genji I am grateful for. Thanks to your meddling, dear boy, you allowed me to realize my ambition did not go far enough.”  
  
“Father…!” Genji starts.  
  
“I want them all.” He holds up his staff, and points it toward the gathered men. “Why should I have to choose when, with the power of the Forge, I can control them all?”  
  
“Impossible!” Hanzo shouts, at the same time as Genji.  
  
“Impossible is our tradition. The Forge is, after all, what has made the impossible possible since the dawn of our history.” A terrible grin crosses his lips. “And Earth? I can think of no more deserving a testing ground. The power of three dragonstones is more than enough to make an example to others in our domain. I will teach future generations of our clan the price of becoming so enamored with a lesser planet.”  
  
“Like hell you will,” McCree says, pushing against his restraints.  
  
“I tire of this conversation. Remove my sons, and prepare the rat for the extraction. He will be first.”  
  
Talon hands fall upon McCree. “Get the fuck off of me!” he snarls, futily jerking away from their grip until they redouble their efforts, and haul him to his bound feet.  
  
“No! Father! Please!” Hanzo pleads.  
  
The Dragon Lord turns to Amelie. “I am dreadfully sorry, my dear.”  
  
Her brow twitches. “My Lord?”  
  
Suddenly, the Bastion units shift, and aim their hulking railgun arms at the Widowmaker. McCree ceases his struggling as his mouth falls open at the sudden turn.  
  
“ _Mi amor_ , what are you-,?” she hisses.  
  
He gropes for her cheek, then trails his finger down to her chin. “It should have been Gérard. He should have been the sacrifice. But then you went and spoiled that, didn’t you? So impatient, you are. Still, you exceeded well beyond my expectations.”  
  
“What?” Widowmaker says. “But you have his! Is that not enough!”  
  
“No. His stone is inactive. With one stone awakened, surely the other will follow.”  
  
The Widowmaker slaps his hand away, scowling.  
  
“She will not survive!” Genji shouts.  
  
The Dragon Lord answers, “And so the sun must set.” To the Talon guard and Bastion units, he orders, “Remove and hold her for extraction as well.”  
  
“I will not go!” she shouts. She throws a hard punch into the jaw of one Talon guard, then knees the stomach of another, valiantly fending off her detainment. However, two more Bastion units arrive, and their thick armor resists her vicious haymakers and kicks until they seize her arms and restrain her. “No! _No!_ ” she shrieks, a sound that runs McCree through like a bolt of ice.  
  
He soon forgets it when he, too, is rudely dragged away from the scene, and the sharp sting of his fresh bruises light up his every nerve.  
  
“Father! Father! Do not do this!” Hanzo roars. The desperate cries from Hanzo are the last thing to reach McCree’s ears.  
  
By the time McCree regains a semblance of situational awareness, he is hoisted prone onto a gurney, where automatic cuffs lock his arms and legs into place. Straps scrape his ears as they bring forward a bar to wedge between his teeth as a gag. A storm of curses break past the gag as they roll him into an starkly lit operating room.  
  
They apply hooks to his eyelids, keeping them locked open as they dive in with scalpels and needles. He feels a throb of pain radiate through his skull, and he cries out. A warm trail of blood trails down his cheek as they violently work away the seals and seams of the iris and sclera.  
  
Agony rips through him, worse than the day he was shot through. He shouts until his lungs burn with exertion. He fast loses his grip on consciousness, and passes out.

* * *

  
  
The Chihuahuan Desert. The full moon hangs high over pronghorn and creosote dotting the otherwise barren, dusty landscape. The light of a campfire flickers next to him. He breathes deep, letting the comforting solitude enter his weary bones.  
  
But he is not alone. Ahead in the dark of night, a pair of devilish eyes open, frothing with deathly white mist. They pin him down as a demon steps into the light of the fire. Robed in white and red, his skin is dark like charcoal, and a tattoo of great red demon adorns his left shoulder. His black hair is swept up in a length of gunmetal ribbon, with tufts of white sprouting from his temples.  
  
"Hanzo?” McCree asks.  
  
The demon grins, toothy with fangs, ripping the long bow from his back. In deliberate motions, he nocks an arrow and pulls back the drawstring.  
  
“Hey, Hanzo. It’s me!” McCree pleads.  
  
The string snaps forward. McCree jumps, and the arrow thunks into the ground at his feet, embedding itself too close for comfort.  
  
"Hanzo, it's me! It's me! Stop!"  
  
He blanches when Hanzo nocks another arrow, and the bow groans at being drawn back full.  
  
McCree draws Peacekeeper. "Please..." McCree begs, thumbing back the hammer.  
  
_You are nothing._  
  
McCree’s grip shakes. "Hanzo..."  
  
_A filthy, unsophisticated animal. Unworthy._  
  
"So what if I am?"  
  
_I murdered my own brother. What makes you think I would not do the same to you, and for lesser reason? Or for no reason at all?_  
  
"'Cause that ain’t you.”  
  
_How hopelessly naive. You believe that, after but a few days, that you think you know me? My crimes are heinous._  
  
"I know. I know they are.”  
  
_Then kill me._  
  
“No.”  
  
_You must slay me, before I do the same to you._  
  
“I’m tellin’ you, I ain’t gonna do it! Not me!”  
  
_Justice must be delivered._  
  
McCree shakes his head, and lowers his gun. “Justice ain't always about retribution. You look like the devil himself, but I see the real you. The man of honor. The man who loves his family. Whose heart runs as deep as the sea."  
  
_What of your Earth? Why not let us Shimada tear each other apart? The chaos would be a boon for Earth. Is this not what you want? A weak Hanamura? You only have to give up your own worthless life._  
  
McCree reels. “Absolutely not.”  
  
_Why? Are you afraid to lose?_  
  
“Maybe, but not the way you’re thinkin’. I don’t care for myself much. What’s really scary is what me an’ you have in common. That’s what I can’t lose."  
  
_Then tell me, why should I not kill you now?_  
  
"Then that’s your choice. True, I ain't got all the cards. The face-up cards are trouble, and I don't know what's face down in the hole. But the truth is, I’m all in. I’ve been all in since you saddled up next to me in the bar. If I’m gonna win this hand, then so will you.”  
  
The draw of Hanzo's bow string slackens.  
  
McCree smiles at him. McCree looks up and around and says, "Hey, Red? If anyone deserves a chance at redemption, it's this fellow. If he kills me and takes all, so be it." With that, he tosses away Peacekeeper.  
  
Hanzo relents, the bow going slack as he straightens. The charcoal skin flakes and blows away like ash. His tattoo returns to its stormy midnight and gold, and the ghostly white eyes revert to their familiar blue.  
  
He smiles.  
  
_May your spirit triumph, cowboy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> corrected the name of McCree's weapon, and I'm a moron


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Sorry for the delay with an update. Rough week for me at work and in my personal life-- plus we're barreling along towards a conclusion here, so I want to take extra care. 
> 
> My aim is to to have the next part up around the same time next week, if not sooner. Thank you, dear readers, for your patience!
> 
> Also sorry for being a complete moron about the name of Jesse's weapon. My brain is that awesome. I went and corrected it and hope to move on but...damn. lol

McCree winces as a flood of harsh light floods his vision. He sighs, his mind clear, and his heart empty, waiting to be filled. It’s the moment he’s been waiting his whole life for. The time when his Maker would whisk him up, no matter what planet he died on, and scorch away his sins. His misery is almost over. He reaches towards the great light.

Or he tries to. His metal arm jerks against a resistance against his wrist. He grunts, confused but for a moment, until he rudely crashes back down into his body, and onto the bed he rests on.

No, not a bed. A gurney. Its unyielding steel makes his bare back ache. He breaks into a cold sweat when he recalls where he is. His eyes dart about, but something’s wrong. The harsh lights of the laboratory do not reach his right side. In fact, a vague throb of pain stabs him as he moves around right eye at all.

Blind. He’s blind. Sweat floods his brow, and tears sting his one good eye left. He chews on the spittle-soaked gag still wedged in his mouth.

“... surge of energy. It destroyed our instruments. It will not allow us near it.”

He tries to rotate his head toward the sound of the voice, but it too is locked in place. He grunts in frustration.

The voice of the Dragon Lord makes him bite down and seethe. “This is a desecration. I hoped for more delicacy, but now I wish to have you remove it by any means necessary. I don't care if you have to split his head wide open to do it!”

“But-,”

“Do it! Have it presented to me within the hour.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Footsteps, then a technician appears over him, with a net over her hair and a surgical mask over her lips. “He’s awake,” she remarks. “No matter. Fetch the oscillating saw.”

McCree’s muffled shouts over the gag reverberate across the lab. He pulls and strains against his restraints when he hears the saw roar to life somewhere nearby. Wielding the awful device, the second technician joins the first. The first technician holds McCree by the throat, and he sputters in vain.

Suddenly, a series of dull crashes and thumps breach the room. The technicians pause, exchanging shocked glances. Several silent seconds tick by until the door bursts open. The technicians turn with their instruments raised. _Hiss, hiss_. Two darts pierce their necks, and they slump to the ground.

McCree mumbles against the gag, astonished and terrified by the intrusion in his vulnerable state.

The tension in his muscles melts away when he hears: "Do not worry, my boy. Mother is here."

Ana appears over him, or so he thinks. A black mask with sky blue lines in a downward triangle pattern covers her face. She tilts her chin, saying, “My goodness, would you look at that…” as she unseals his mouth and removes the gag.

McCree swallows, wetting the inside of his dry mouth. Rasping, he says, “Ana. Ana, I screwed up.”

“Screwed up?”

“Blind as a bat in this eye. Screwed up my goddamned Journey.”

She chuckles, next releasing his cuffs.

He scowls. “What’s so damn funny?”

“My dear, they certainly made an ugly mess of you, but you shouldn’t give up hope yet.”

“Yeah, right,” he spits, sitting up. “I don’t fucking believe this.” He rips off his glove and prods his finger against his right eye, feeling the exposed iris and edges of the stone within. It hurts to blink.

Ana says, "We must discuss this later. Can you stand?”

McCree throws his legs over the side of the gurney and lifts himself onto his feet. He shifts his weight, testing his legs. “Yeah. Still sharp as a tack. They didn’t bother to give me any good stuff.”

Ana holds out her hand for him to grasp as he takes a few steps forward. “Glad I got here when I did, then.”

“How did you get here, anyway? How did you escape the mountain?”

“Amélie thinks that since she’s bested me before that she has nothing to worry about. For someone with a dragon’s eye, she can be rather short-sighted. This old woman still has quite a few tricks up her sleeve, and fine daughter who is hardier than she looks.” She sighs. “Even if she does still have a thing or two to learn.”

He releases her hand as his steps grow stronger. “Well, God bless you. If only I had my sweet Susan, and I might not slow you down.”

“We’ll just have to make you stay hidden for now,” Ana says, nodding to his spurs.

McCree frowns as he stoops to remove them, tossing them away. “Blind, neutered, defanged. I ain’t never felt like such an old dog as I do now.”

“Come, enough of the self-pity. Hanzo’s still in trouble, too, you know.”

McCree stands, refocusing his thoughts on the present. “Right.”

Ana waves him to follow as she heads for the door. With light footsteps, they spill out into a lonely hallway, with the pieces of a Bastion unit lying about his feet. Doorways stand along the hall, one at every two-dozen paces.

“It may take some time to search these,” Ana says.

“Hanzo said earlier he was being kept prisoner in his old chambers,” McCree says. “Hold up a minute!” He reaches behind him, palpating the hard edge of his tablet in his pocket. He whips it out, but the light on the communication device blinks erratically. “Hanzo,” he says. “Hanzo!”

Silence answers him. The gray device flickers.

“Shit,” McCree says, smacking the tablet with the butt of his palm.

The tablet crackles. “Jes-..e.”

“Hey! Hey Hanzo!”

“ _Jess-_ ”

“My, he’s coming through awful,” Ana says, clicking her tongue.

McCree says, “Hanzo, tell us where you are. We’re gonna come bust you out!”

McCree smacks it again. “How...are-...alright?”

“What? Where are you?”

“Chambers...escape...still can-”

Suddenly the connection cuts, and the light of the device pulses weakly, then fades out.

“Damn it,” McCree says, making a motion to fling the tablet in frustration. With Ana present, he thinks the better of it, and stuffs it back into his pocket.

“‘Chambers’. I think it is safe to say your earlier assumption may be correct. In that case, we should go this way, and not linger a moment longer.”

She starts off left, but McCree’s legs remain fixed in place. A sting of conscience tethers him, making him bare his teeth in frustration.

Ana notices, turning. “What now?”

“Can’t go yet,” McCree says. He says, “We gotta find the Widowmaker.”

“Oh? Is she here?”

“Yeah. I mean, probably.” He points to his right eye. “They’re probably trying to do the same thing to her as we speak.”

Ana shakes her head, clucking. “And she didn’t think something like this would happen? What did I tell you.”

“Still, she don’t deserve this. She’s just one more person getting screwed over by that black-eyed son-of-a-bitch.”

He can feel Ana’s penetrating gaze through her unsettling mask. “You are a good man, Jesse. It may take some time to search for her, however.”

Yet as she finishes her sentence, a muffled shriek races down his spine. The sound bounces through the cold hallways, and around a slight bend. He exchanges a look with Ana, and they move toward the source, crouched and silent. Ana soon raises their fist, and they come to a halt in a shadowy nook.

There, two Bastion units stand guard a few meters ahead with arm-rifles raised. The strip of light descending through their forward faces glow a bright, siren red.

But a crash of glass sends up a billow of corrosive mist. Ana lines up her shot. She waits until their armor softens enough for her to drill a bullet through one of their heads, then the other. The red lights short and blink out, and the units slump to the ground with a harsh clang of metal.

Seconds later, the door swishes open. A technician peeks their head out.

“What the-,”

_Hiss._

A dart fells him instantly. McCree follows Ana as they slip through the open door. She peppers the white-clad technicians with silent shots, and they fall like mown wheat. Cuffed to a gurney, the Widowmaker lies prone as McCree did moments ago, with her eyelid pried open with a retractor, and a gag plugging her mouth. Fresh, McCree notices, as well as her intact left eye, and he deduces that they arrived just as they were getting started with their gruesome operation.

Nonetheless, she glares at them as he and Ana approach.

“Oh, don’t be like that, my dear,” Ana says as she removes the gag, then the retractor.

The Widowmaker coughs as the gag is removed. “I suppose you want a ‘thank you’?” she then says.

“Don’t thank me. Thank our Earthen cowboy here,” Ana shrugs. “Else I might have been tempted to leave you to your just desserts.”

The Widowmaker turns her attention to McCree, eyeing him with disdain. “Why? So you can kill me yourselves? Or to laugh?”

“I ain’t laughin’,” McCree says. “What he done to you just ain’t right. Besides, I wanna keep yours _and_ mine out of his grubby hands.”

The Widowmaker regards him as Ana releases her cuffs. The moment they snap off, the former is on her feet with the grace of a spider. She says, “Then you will not stand in my way as I hunt him down, kill him, and set fire to this whole fucking place.”

Ana says. “Why don’t we put our enmity aside for the time being and work together?”

The Widowmaker huffs. “You offer me that after all I’ve done? You are either very crafty or very lucky, since still you stand before me. If I were you, I’d take the first opportunity to shoot me in the back, and leave me to burn.”

“No, my dear. Not everyone thinks the same way you do.”

The Widowmaker waves her off, pushing past her and McCree. “No, I do this myself. The Shimada family will pay.”

“With your bare hands? Doesn’t look like either of us will be gettin’ far on our own,” McCree reasons.

She turns to glance over her shoulder and smiles. Wryly. She turns about and click-clacks as he approaches McCree. He leans back as she moves in close.

“ _Incroyable_ ,” she says, examining his right eye. “I suppose there is one way I can repay you. I know where they are keeping my effects, and therefore, yours.”

McCree grins. “Lady, if you can reunite me with my darlin’ girl, then I’ll consider us square.”

“Then try to keep up.”

"Amélie!" Ana calls as the Widowmaker bolts from the lab, her heels clacking over the metal floor. Galvanized, McCree dashes in pursuit, with Ana following. Ana cautions, “Be careful! Heaven’s omnics are on high alert!”

Suddenly, the hallway floods with red light. A flat, robotic voice declares, “All units, alert! All units, alert! Security breach in progress. Bastion units dispatched to laboratories. Shoot on sight. Repeat...”

The Widowmaker clicks her tongue, annoyed. She stops short and stoops next to a square panel with a heavy handle embedded in the sheeting. She grabs it and yanks, pulling the panel away to reveal an access duct. “Here,” she says. “This will be easier.”

Metal footsteps clang and crash through the hall. “Ladies first,” McCree says, though his nerves bristle as the noise grows louder, closer. The Widowmaker squeezes in, then Ana. Once McCree wedges himself inside the duct, he grabs the panel edge and slides it back over, tugging it back into place. The panel locks just as a stampede of metal feet gallop by, sending tremors through the duct. When the noise abates, McCree whistles out a long breath.

“Hurry up,” Ana hisses, and McCree peels himself off of the duct walls. The Widowmaker leads their shuffling column through a maze of splits and curves. It’s dark, save for the scant bit of light that penetrates through cracks and vents. His knees ache, and his palm chafes by the time Ana slows her crawl.

“Here,” the Widowmaker says. “But give me a moment.” Red light flashes, washing the drab metal duct in blood red. “Clear,” she says, then drops, her boots colliding with a thin grate. Its bolts give way under her weight, and it clatters against yet another cold, bare floor.

Ana follows her down, then McCree, who finds them in a dimly-lit, deserted storage chamber of some sort, with piles of boxes scattered helter-skelter among shelves and odd linens draped over hooks. Cases of daggers and throwing knives also rest upon myriad rows of shelves in an uncategorized mess. He follows Ana and the Widowmaker as they slip between the shelves and towards the entryway, and the light of its narrow window.

“Unbelievable. I kept this place impeccable. How could you let it get like this?” Ana says, glancing about.

“Because unlike you, I choose not to waste my time on unimportant things,” the Widowmaker says.

“Hardly,” Ana grumbles.

McCree glances ahead, squinting in the dark. “There!” He squeezes past the two ladies in a rush.

Dumped on the ground just inside the door, the bright flowing red of his serape beckons him. He stumbles toward it and falls to his knees, finding his equally beloved chest armor underneath, as well as his flashbangs and belt. He also finds his hat turned over next to the pile, which he promptly scoops up and presses onto his head.

The Widowmaker scoffs. But his focus fixes on the pile as he lifts up the armor, and grins. Underneath he sees a shape and polish he’d recognize anywhere.

“There you are, sweetheart!” He reaches, picking up his Peacekeeper as though it were the Holy Grail, and kisses its barrel. He checks its cylinder, finding a full six rounds. Six shots. He locks it back into place, smiling. His relief fades, however, when his eyes drift over to what lay beside his heap of things.

A bow and quiver full of arrows. Hanzo’s. He snatches them up. Genji’s long and short swords also rest nearby. A sharp heel steps over him, and the Widowmaker stoops, grabbing up her rifle and grappling hook tossed over to the side just inside the door.

He rises to his feet as she snaps on the wrist-mounted grappler, her left eye still glowing bright in the dark. “Thank you,” he says.

She huffs, lifting the rifle to lean against her shoulder. “Get dressed already.”

He does so. Once he holsters his weapon, she says, “We are even now, cowboy. Get in my way, and I will cut you down.”

“Likewise,” he says, refusing to back down from her cold stare. It thaws as she grins.

“Perhaps if you somehow survive this, I would delight in a duel between us Masters.”

“Hell lady, you speakin’ my language now.”

“A repulsive thought. _Adieu_ , Earth man.” She glances past him. “And to hell with you, old hag.”

“You’re welcome,” Ana says cheerfully.

The Widowmaker scoffs as she exits, the door hissing as it slides open and shut.

“Did she say ‘Masters’?” McCree asks.

Ana crosses over to Genji’s weapons and sets down her rifle. “Come, dear. Now that you are whole again, we have no more time to waste.”

“That I can agree with. What’s the quickest way to the castle keep from here?” McCree shoulders Hanzo’s bow and ties the quiver to his belt. “I only got six shots, by the way. And like hell I can use this big ol’ thing.”

Ana secures the blades to her back, tugging the scabbards’ straps into place. “I know a way. Stick to my instructions, and there will be no need for us to waste your ammunition. They didn’t call me The Ghost for nothing.”

* * *

 

McCree pinches his nose, growling as his boot lands in something squishy. _Again_. Moisture plops down onto the brim of his hat. Just water, he convinces himself. Yet when Ana sweeps her flashlight across the foul brick, black specks of vermin skitter and scurry up and over him. He flinches with every tingle and brush against his skin. An impulse has him imagine popping a few with a couple rounds, but reason wins out against that solution.

He and Ana press on through an extensive sewer network, and while he avoids soaking his boots further in the shallow trench of water running down the center of the dank corridor. He wonders where all the wastewater goes, and whether Heaven has its own facilities to purify it. If present circumstances had not already done so, then his wandering thoughts about Heaven’s sanitation system would remove any sense of wonder he ever possessed about the place.

Loose stones wobble under the balls of his feet. Ana halts them when they come to a rung ladder leading up and through a cylindrical pipe. McCree looks up, and swallows thickly. There’s light at the top, but the pipe is just barely large enough in diameter to accommodate his broad shoulders. Meanwhile, Ana climbs through the dozen or so meters without difficulty.

The image of Hanzo’s face drifts across his mind. Without further hesitation, he secures his hat, reaches for a rung, and hauls himself up.

Soft light filters down through grates along the next trench. “Here,” Ana whispers. McCree glances up to one such grate, then leans down for Ana to climb on his shoulders. He straightens, and she lifts as pushes aside the thick iron grate as gently as she can. They exit the trench and onto a courtyard, the latter full of bamboo and orchid-like flowers, all surrounding a crystal clear fish pond, complete with a babbling brook.

McCree has scarcely the time to appreciate the serenity of the view when Ana whispers, “This way,” directing them around the courtyard’s perimeter.

As they slink against the inner keep walls, the castle is eerily quiet, save for more babbling fountains interspersed throughout the castle halls. McCree is entirely disoriented in the vast structure after he lost count of how many times they turned a corner and darted up myriad stairways. Ana holds up her fist, and he stops. Down the hallway, he spots two Bastion units guarding a doorway.

“Ready when you are,” he whispers.

“Save your shots,” she says.

“Huh?”

It’s then that he notices the Bastion units are slumped, and the vertical strip of light of their heads are dark. As he and Ana step out of cover to approach, McCree sees throwing stars riddling their joints.

They enter the room, and there, next to a pair of cuffs, is another lone throwing star.

“This is Genji’s doing,” Ana remarks.

“But where is he?” McCree says.

“Let us go collect Hanzo, if he is still there. Quickly.”

Ana brings them around another corner, where two Bastion units stand. These units are very much alive. As before in the laboratory, she rips another vial from her belt and tosses it. A crash of glass, and the Bastion units whine and beep in alarm as a puff of violet mist envelops them. Two suppressed rifle shots in their necks later, they crumble to pieces.

McCree puts a hand to his hat, ensuring that it is still on his head. “Damn, lady.”

She sets about reloading her rifle. “Let’s go. This should be Hanzo’s chamber.”

They dash in. Before them, Hanzo rests on his knees, his eyes closed. He breathes in and out in equal measure. The only thing amiss from such a serene picture were the restraints about his wrists, crossed atop his lap. His eyes pop open, however, as their footsteps clamor on the wooden floor.

He reels. “Ana! I feared you dead!”

McCree smiles. “She says they call her a ghost. Think I can see why now.”

Hanzo gasps, staggering to his feet. “Jesse!”

Ana sets to undoing his restraints, freeing his wrists. McCree, meanwhile, removes the bow and quiver of arrows, holding them out. “Well gosh, darlin’, it’s good to see you still breathin’, too. Look, I know. You don’t got to feel sorry for me or nothin’-,”

Hanzo ignores the bow and quiver, instead stumbling forward, wide-eyed. He nearly loses his footing until his hand claps McCree on the shoulder. He steadies himself, saying, “You have done it!”

“What are you-,”

“It is awake!”

“Huh?”

A long silence expands between the two men as McCree’s expression scrunches up in confusion, while Hanzo’s falls in naked astonishment.

“Awake?” McCree repeats.

Suddenly, Hanzo rushes forward, colliding against him in a rough embrace. McCree nearly drops the weapons in his hands as Hanzo trembles in a sob. McCree’s cheeks flush as he feels Hanzo clutch at his serape.

“Hanzo, are you alright?” McCree asks.

“You fool. You ridiculous, incredible fool! You have done it!” Hanzo draws back, his cheeks damp with tears.

“Hey now, darlin',” McCree says, wishing he could wipe Hanzo cheek with the corner of his serape. The glassy pools of Hanzo’s eyes enchant him even more at this proximity. McCree darts his tongue out to wet his chapped lips. “You say that, but I still can’t see a doggone thing out this eye.”

“Your implant appears damaged. But I assure you, its power is alive. The stone smolders with it. It is quite plain to see.”

At this, McCree’s smile drops. “You can’t be serious.” He turns to Ana. “You didn’t tell me.”

Ana chuckles. “I told you not to lose hope.”

McCree’s gaze falls to Hanzo’s stormy tattoo. His temples burn as Hanzo says, “I am in awe. You are no longer simply an Earth man, Jesse McCree. Lift your chin.” McCree does so, and Hanzo locks his gaze, saying, “You are a Dragon.”

“I am a Dragon,” McCree repeats, breathless. He recalls the visage of Hanzo from his dreams. He admits, “Thanks to you, in part.”

Hanzo smiles, pulling back from McCree.  He plucks from the latter his bow and quiver, securing them to his person. “I am flattered, but refuse to accept credit. You achieved this yourself.  I am...proud.  Proud of you, and to call you my friend.”

McCree chuckles, pulling down the brim of his hat.  "Aw, shucks."

"You're making him blush, Hanzo," Ana says.  "He's as red as his dragonstone."

His smile broadens into a grin, saying, “How very endearing that is."

"Enough already," McCree croaks out, covering his cheeks with his gloved hand.  

Hanzo sobers, saying, "With the three of us, we are more than a match for Father. But we must also find Genji."  McCree glances over to Ana.  At that, Hanzo asks, “Where is my brother? Is he safe?”

“He escaped his confines,” Ana says. “No doubt he is on his way to confront your father.”

Hanzo grows severe, saying, “Then what are we standing around for? We must hurry to the Forge!” Hanzo says. The gold ribbon in his hair flows and snaps as he glides past. “The ritual is performed there. Let us hurry!”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW! Thank you so much for your patience!

Siren lights wash the castle halls in red. The hollow blare of alarms draw Bastion units and Talon agents, intercepting them around corners and through trap doors; but Hanzo and Ana destroy them without pausing their strides, and with a near-precognition that unsettles McCree-- until he figures Hanzo has spent the better part of his life roaming these halls, and that Ana probably built every trap and ambush spot herself. Nonetheless, he keeps Peacekeeper raised near his cheek, his own instincts demanding he double-check every dark corner and intersection.

He drops his guard, however, as the assaults grow less frequent, until they are able to run entire corridors unmolested. “Think you scared them off?” McCree asks.

Hanzo replies, “Hardly. Called off is more likely.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

“We must hurry.”

They arrive at the keep’s open court, the place where McCree first glimpsed the Dragon Lord and his omnic retinue. Behind the court, and through a short hall, they come to chamber where a circular elevator platform awaits. Its seams light up in a cold white glow as they approach. McCree glances over to Hanzo, whose brow glistens with a coat of sweat.

“Seems like we’re being invited,” McCree observes.

“I had the same disturbing thought,” Hanzo says.

Ana says, “Your father is confident, but so are we.” She nods to the hilt of the sword strapped to her back. “Your brother may already be down there.”

At that, Hanzo proceeds forward, stepping onto the platform. It jostles to life as the three of them board, and begins its descent through a hollow of black rock. The rock gleams smooth and glassy, like obsidian. Crooks and crevices glitter with a strange pale energy. The circle of light from the castle shrinks away above them.

“Whatever you do,” Hanzo says. “Do not look directly at the Forge.”

“Huh?” McCree answers dumbly.

“Unless you have protective eyewear, or active implants, the brilliance of its power will destroy the sight in your biological eye.”

“Got it,” McCree says. He next looks over to Ana. “So that’s why you’ve got a creepy mask on.”

“Mostly,” she says. “Oxygen also gets a bit scarce at this altitude when your daughter’s giving you a lift up.”

“Well, while we’re waiting, let me take the opportunity to say thank you.”

Ana chuckles. “Keep it. I haven’t had this much fun in years.”

“If we live through this, I wouldn’t mind a few of pointers from you.”

Ana turns to him. Warmly, “It’d be my honor, Master McCree.”

“Master,” McCree repeats, scoffing. “Not real sure about the whole ‘Master’ shit to be honest.”

Hanzo chuckles. “Best to get used to it.”

“Plan to, _Master_ Hanzo,” McCree says as he sets about patting himself down, cursing.

Hanzo observes him for a moment before asking, “What is it now?”

“My smokes,” McCree says, sighing. He takes off his hat and holds it over his heart. “The first to fall in the line of duty. No doubt being wasted between the lips of some goon as we speak.”

“Your concerns are so trivial sometimes.”

“Yep, well, _que sera, sera_ ,” McCree says, replacing his hat.

“Hm?”

He replaces his hat, singing, “ _Whatever will be, will be. The future’s not ours to see._ ” His baritone bounces through the elevator shaft.

Hanzo shakes his head at his crooning, but folds his arms, and with solemnity he echoes, “ _Que sera, sera._ ”

The platform glides below the shaft of black rock, and deposits them before a vestibule leading to a towering stone doorway, its glossy panels curved toward them. Two immense dragons run the length of the hall on either side of the pathway, with pools of flowing water running along their backs. To his right, green vines and pink blossoms cover the ferocious visage of another monstrous dragon. To his left, a skeletal dragon coils in and out among the rock, as though a corpse breaching out from its grave; finally, above, etched on a frieze floats a grand serpent, with gold-lacquered scales and broad feathered wings at full extension.

The incredible artistry of the scene astonishes McCree. As they proceed forward, the panels of the stone door groan as they slide apart, welcoming them inside its recesses.

“Abandon hope,” McCree says under his breath.

“Keep your guard up,” Hanzo says.

They step over the threshold, and straight into the void of the night sky. Or perhaps a planetarium show in progress, McCree thinks. The strange, pale energy of the black stone stud the cavern walls and inclined floors like a galaxy. Wide, oblong windows to the left and right sides of the room are cut out from rock, as well as one punched up through the ceiling, where a trickle of daylight seeps into the cavern. The sunlight reflects off of the cavern’s center, where the myriad specks of light in the rock flow and concentrate into a huge black-tinted enclosure, dwarfing McCree by at least twenty meters. Within, however, a ball of volatile energy seethes, its surface roiling like a miniature sun. Arcs of energy discharge across the enclosure.

“Is that-,” McCree starts.

“The Forge,” Hanzo confirms.

The door panels grumble to a close behind them. The floor forms a concave web of pathways. With the scarce light through the gaps, McCree can just make out an army of strange statues. Of peculiar animals, he thinks. An odd menagerie arranged like terra cotta warriors.

It’s then that McCree notices, on one of the web’s rings near the Forge, that three of these hulking animals were alive and moving. Not animals. _Omnics._ Centaurian ones, standing on four legs and with two arms to spare. A pair of broad, flat horns point down from each side of their faces, the latter flat and eyeless, save for an array of blinking sensors. Their armor is bone white and glossy, but infused with electronics that glow a pale yellow.

“OR15s,” McCree whispers, his blood freezing in his veins as they advance down, closer to the Forge.

“You know of them, then,” Hanzo asks, matching his volume.

“Unfortunately. A rare unit me and my gang saw back on Earth. Spotting one on the field guaranteed the call for retreat.”

Suddenly, Hanzo cries out. “Genji!”

“Brother! It is a trap!” Genji calls. Surrounded by the three omnics, Genji stands immobile, trapped by some type of energy tether extending from each of the OR15s’ wrists, their other arms equipped each with a gatling gun. The throwing stars between his fingers are useless as the omnics’ hold his arm locked against his side.

“Welcome, Masters!”

An angel speaks. He appears over the Forge, floating over its enclosure with wings spread wide, with shining strips of golden energy sprouting from them like the finest feathers. As the angel floats in closer, McCree notices the black eyes and long white hair. Gone are his golden robes, instead wearing a suit of armor and brandishing his staff. The Dragon Lord, in righteous splendor, comes not as a herald of peace, but a harbinger of battle. An archangel.

His voice booms throughout the cavern. “And the interloper is also here, yes? Ana, I hope the life of defeated has-been hasn’t been too hard on your old bones.”

“Is that a coward’s boast I hear? Your chest-thumping doesn’t fool anyone, my Lord.”

“A pity you’re just as ruinous and insolent as my sons. If you side with them, then my conscience is clear.”

“Let my brother go!” Hanzo roars. He draws an arrow and looses an arrow, then another. The arrow strikes one of the omnics clean through its neck, the next through the side of its head. Its head lists, and it sways on its legs. The tether weakens, and Genji rips his arm loose. A trio of deadly stars immediately crush in the face of a second OR15. It, too, totters and crumples before releasing its hold on him.

The Dragon Lord merely chuckles as the trio advance down the slope of the pathway and toward Genji.

“Genji!” Ana calls, tossing him his sword. It pinwheels through the air until Genji snatches it down to his side and pulls it free from its sheath. He brings it around in a blur of green, slicing the tether arm off the last OR15, then finishing it off with a thrust through the heavy carapace of its chest. Like the others, the omnic slumps forward, darkened and deactivated.

“Wait!” Genji says, holding out his hand. McCree, Ana, and Hanzo stop in their tracks. Genji fixes his bristling gaze on the Dragon Lord above and says, “Look around you. It is worse than we feared.”

The Dragon Lord chuckles again.

McCree takes another gander down past the web of pathways, the sunlight and the filtered light of the Forge touching on the strange statues. It’s then that McCree realizes that these are not statues at all, but real, live omnics. The dotted faces of hundreds of OR15’s fill the floorspace beneath their feet, their yellow sensors flashing to life.

“ _Shit,_ ” McCree says.

The Dragon Lord holds out his staff. “Do you know what the Forge actually is? Few in the Shimada clan, so caught up with the other dragonstones, have ever contemplated the meaning of their connection with the Forge.” The Forge behind him crackles with bolts of energy, arcing and striking the far end of his staff. The energy feeds the Dragon Lord’s armor, and the gold of his feathers wipe away from gold to brilliant white. “The Forge itself is dragonstone. The parent of all dragonstones. It is the heart of not just our civilization, but of this entire planet.” The weapon absorbs the energy, and he raises it high.

McCree’s right eye grows hot. Reflexively, he blinks, regretting it when the pain gets worse. Hanzo, too, grunts with discomfort and blinks furiously. “What is-,”

A monstrous OR15 leaps up onto the platform, the floor shaking beneath its weight. It, however, is not alone, as two more leap from the floor below. These omnic generals soar in height, dwarfing the other OR15s by a factor of two. The jagged horns of a dragon sprout from the sides of their heads, and their faces are extended into the shape of a snout. The panels across their saucer-like eyes blink rapidly. Though the sockets are empty, each emit a different color - one green, one red, one blue. Their joints and nodes, however, bristle with the white hot current of the Forge.

“Hope springs eternal from it. Though I am sightless, its essence still guides me.” The Dragon Lord brings the staff up, then swings it down.

“Brother!” Hanzo shouts.

With impossible swiftness for its bulk, the green-eyed general leaps and brings down a crushing blow upon Genji’s head. Genji crosses his sword above him, grunting as withstanding the wallop transfers through him and to the ground below his feet, which buckles and cracks.

“This was your plan? To control the power of the stones through _omnics_?” Ana says.

“What sacrilege!” Hanzo says.

The Dragon Lord answers, “I beg to differ. The implants are already omnic in nature. This is but a logical evolution. Can you argue with this when you look upon your own brother, Hanzo?”

Genji cries out in a burst of strength and heaves the arm off of him. But in a blink of an eye, the monster brings its arms together, clapping Genji between them. His arms break with a sickening crack. He cries out in agony.

Hanzo calls out his brother’s name, but hesitates to release his next arrow when the red and blue OR15’s aim their massive guns. Sweat drips from McCree’s brow as his grip tightens on Peacekeeper.

He hears the click from Ana’s rifle. A _pop_ later sends up a pointed dart aimed between the Dragon Lords blackened eyes. He, however, deflects the projectile with his staff.

“How?” Ana says, lifting her head up from her rifle’s scope.

“As I said, its essence guides me.” Then, with it, he waves his staff to the side. The green OR15 responds, tossing Genji’s broken body aside. The clatter of his metal body and his sword resound in the cavernous space. The Dragon Lord moves his staff, and the three omnics respond, stepping and sweeping their arms in a display of perfect synchronicity.

Suddenly, the ground below thunders as the army of OR15s mimic their generals. The tremors shake the cavern enough to cause fine sand to crumble down upon their heads. The quake ends when they halt with their guns raised up.

The sun creeps further up overhead, its beams cascading down upon the Dragon Lord as his staff draws another bolt of power from the Forge, and the Dragon Lord waves it overhead in a circle.

“Now, to take back what is rightfully mine! Die, and quickly. Earth awaits.”

The OR15 generals are joined by a pair of minions from below, the latter group leaping onto the platform. The trio retreat some steps as the two metal behemoths advance with guns raised. Hanzo and Ana fire on them, but the omnics raise their arms as a barrier coats their thick armor. Their bullets and arrows make minimal impacts across their bodies. McCree aims Peacekeeper to try his luck.

“Hold,” Hanzo says, shutting his eyes. “I feel it. The Forge.”

The OR15 guns rotate. They open fire, spraying bullets and forcing McCree and Ana to retreat.

Hanzo, however, plants his feet. “Hanzo!” McCree calls, but hesitates when he sees Hanzo notch an arrow, his bow taking on a peculiar glow. Hanzo next opens his eyes, they froth with blue mist.

“ _Ryuu ga waga teki wo kurau!_ ”

Hanzo’s bow thrums, and his giant twin dragons emerge from his arrow, hurdling through the two OR15s. The dragons are not a deep blue, but pearl white. The attack melts through the barriers of the lesser omnics with ease, obliterating their thick plating until only bare metal skeletons remain. The dragons continue on a path of destruction toward the three OR15 generals, intent on swallowing them up.

The Dragon Lord, however, lowers his staff, and a bolt of white transfers power from his staff to his OR15 generals. In unison, the three activate their own barriers just as the dragon’s fangs fall upon them. The dragons pass through them harmlessly.

“Damn!” Hanzo breathes, his shoulders slumped with exertion.

“Impressive, my son, but useless. You will exhaust yourself before long.”

Another pair of OR15s leap up to replace their fallen comrades. “Shit,” McCree spits. Six bullets.

_Enough for them all._

"What?" Jesse says aloud, only realizing he did when Hanzo and Ana look to him.

_Focus on your prey._

McCree only has to think for a moment before he smirks in recognition at the voice in his mind. He says, "Buckle up, fellas and ladies. Ol' Jesse's finally bringing the fight."

“Is that the miserable Earth rat I hear? Even if your stone is active, I will certainly not be stopped by _you_ ,” the Dragon Lord sneers. Suddenly, the dark enclosure of the Forge splits into panels and unfolds like petals of a blossom, revealing its scouring light. The overwhelming brilliance burns McCree’s biological eye, and he flinches in pain.

_Focus!_

He fights through it and obeys, closing his human eye. His blind eye, however, turns out not to be so blind, as a red veil descends across the scene, filtering out the dazzling backdrop. The Forge pulses, and he feels its resonance feed into Peacekeeper in his right hand. His metal hand crosses over and hovers over the hammer. Blood red marks collapse upon the OR15 units, the sight of the red dragon pinpointing for him the killing shots.

“Jesse,” he hears Hanzo say, breathless in awe.

Five marks. And a sixth, aimed upon the Dragon Lord himself, awash in sunlight. McCree chances a glance up toward the skylight, seeing the sun at its zenith. He chuckles, his red eye flashing.

With a wry smile, he says, “Ain't never said this on another planet: it’s high noon!"

“Stop!” the Dragon Lord says, reeling.

Deaf to his plea, McCree pulls the trigger.

_Bam, bam._ Clean holes rip through each of the lesser omnics, gouged right through their shielding, and through their thick armor as though it were cardboard. The lights of their eyes flicker, then extinguish as they collapse in heaps.

_Bam, bam, bam._  The three OR15 generals stagger. Holes in their armor appear, its exposed circuits smoking and crackling as they raise their guns. But as they do so, each one tips forward and crashes lifelessly to the ground.

_Bam._  In the same instant, the angel above cries out falls like a stone, his left wing pierced through and shattered. He lands on his knees with a heavy thump, his staff coming loose from his grip and clattering to the floor.

The red veil disappears, and McCree returns to his blinded state. He keeps his other eye shut tight, but finds it difficult to stand.

"Jesse!" Hanzo says. McCree feels two powerful hands prop him up by the shoulders before he can pitch forward in sheer exhaustion. Hanzo remarks, "What power!”

Ana says, “The power of the red stone truly is as fearsome as its reputation. And to be wielded by an alien, no less."

“The Forge is closing,” Hanzo tells him, rotating so that McCree can lean against his shoulder. Chancing a peek, McCree sees the enclosure swallow back up the blazing core until the cavern comfortably dims.

“Ridiculous.” The Dragon Lord coughs, struggling to stand. Sparks cascade from his broken wing. "I, ah, don't understand! Why? Why do you all - why does this rat have an awakened stone, while I must suffer with _nothing_? Nothing!”

He points to his blackened eyes. “If these were awakened, I could have saved them. Could have saved _her_.  Don't you understand?  Then none of this would have happened!" He looks down to his staff and snatches it back up. He bares his teeth, lifting the weapon above him. The Forge obediently infuses it.

“Father, stop this madness!” Genji cries.

All present turn in shock as Genji stands tall where he had been discarded, his sword in hand. His eyes shine green as the Forge also touches his blade. Its bolts of white light hit his sword, and the pulses surge through his body. His crushed joints and torn exosuit snap and rotate back into their correct places. “As you have witnessed, you do not have any hope. I see it plainly now. Your actions are full of despair.”

“You-!” The Dragon Lord thrusts out the staff, and from it erupts a bolt of white energy. It crashes against Genji in an explosion, and McCree’s heart drops, expecting to see a smoking crater once the light fades.

Instead, Genji still stands tall. Not only undamaged, but with his omnic body electrified. His green eyes flare with multiplied power.

Genji extracts his sword.

“ _Ryuujin no ken o kure!_ ”

The green dragon envelops him, and he dashes forward.

“You win, you miserable boy!” the Dragon Lord spits.

“Genji, don’t!” Hanzo calls out.

McCree flinches. He peeks his eye open when he hears the staff clatter to the ground.

The Dragon Lord, however, remains standing. He touches his chest, confirming himself unhurt.

“Genji…” the Dragon Lord starts, turning to his son, having appeared behind him in a crouch, with the edge of his sword extended. The latter stands, and tosses his blade away.

“You expected me to kill you,” Genji says, turning.

The Dragon Lord looks down to his palms. His voice loses all its former vigor when he says, “I hoped. Deep down, I hoped you would.”

Genji takes a step toward him, saying, “That would be one way to end this madness. My old self would have ended it that way. But that is not how the green would end this. This is not how my true self would want to end this.”

The Dragon Lord falters, then drops to his knees, leaning against his staff.

Genji continues, "You do not accept the stones favoring us, because you do not accept yourself, father. As we have.”

“You want to be cruel, to be selfish. You believe this is the strength you need to support you in your grief. But it is a false strength, because it is not natural for you. You picked the gold dragonstone for a reason, did you not?”

“Genji…” the Dragon Lord breathes, tears falling freely.

“Enough of this, Father. Lay down your weapon. Give up this ambition. Let us come home."

The Dragon Lord’s lip quivers. "After all I have done? After you-...and you wish to return?"

"Though I am more machine than man, I am still your son. I still want to return to my real father. The gentle, compassionate man whom I know is buried under so much suffering. But there is another way, besides anger, and grief. It's acceptance, and hope for a brighter tomorrow. That’s what the Forge gives us.”

The Dragon Lord crushes his palm to his face, sobbing openly, his wails echoing about the room. He staggers to his feet, and with some composure, he says, "Genji, my son. How could you see it, where I was blind? I did pick the gold as a young man, because I loved to put smiles on faces. Since I was a boy, I knew I could bring out the sincerest joy from healing the most grievous wounds, inside or out. I wanted my reign to be remembered for the warm light of comfort and succor. But then, they...then she. What have I been thinking? Only of myself! Only of my own grief, that's what! No more. No more!"

Suddenly, the Forge surges in its confines, power erupting like solar flares across the exterior. A flicker appears in the Dragon Lord's eyes.

"Father!" Hanzo says, gripping McCree tightly. The latter doesn't mind, for he is just as astonished when the flicker erupts into a burst of gold, as sublime as starlight.

"The gold...the North. The Midday," the Dragon Lord whispers. "Can it be? I can see...I can see all of you! Not just through my eyes...but as if with my own heart. Genji, oh! You lifted the darkness from my eyes, and after trying for so long.” He stumbles forward, clapping Genji on his shoulder. “You truly are the dawn, and just as splendid."

Genji weeps, crushing his father to him in an embrace. McCree limps toward them with Hanzo under his arm, and he catches Ana sniffling under her mask. After several sobs and tearful moments, the Dragon Lord and his son release one another. The Dragon Lord turns to Hanzo. He steps forward. "Hanzo.”

“Father.”

“I know your forgiveness will not come easy, nor should it. I asked you to do something that no one should ever have to. I dragged you to the bottom of despair along with me. Yet even then, and ever since you were a boy, you faced your trials and burdens with an open heart, and with courage, something I could never do."

"Until now, Father," Hanzo says, sighing. He straightens, releasing McCree. McCree, for his part, recovers well enough to stand without difficulty. “I can scarcely believe all of this.”

“Better late than never,” McCree remarks. The Dragon Lord turns to him, and a pang of fear grips McCree, perhaps not out of the woods yet.

But then, the Dragon Lord smiles.

"And the Earth man. It’s perhaps your forgiveness I desire most of all. You clearly are no rat. You are a dragon among your people."

"Shucks, mister Dragon Lord," McCree says, removing his hat.

The Dragon Lord chuckles. "That Earth harbors dragons of their own is no insignificant detail. This is a brand new history. Therefore, I will declare Earth a sister planet, and for all travel and commerce to be free and open between our cultures. I only hope that you will consider being an honorary liaison in my council." He eyes Hanzo. "Or more, in the case of my heir's.”

Hanzo’s eyes bulge. He looks away at nothing and grumbles out, "He would be...acceptable, father."

"Hah! Consider that high praise, Master McCree."

McCree fights the warmth surging in his cheeks. "That I do, your Highness. I’d be happy to lend my services, but I’ll have to clear it with my boss back home.  With all due respect, he's even scarier than you are."

“Excellent.  Then I shall arrange for you to-,"

A shot rings out.

Time seems to stop as everyone freezes in place, not even chancing to breathe. McCree only realizes what has happened when a bloom of red burst across The Dragon Lord's chest.

Hanzo breaks the spell first.  "Father!" he wails, stumbling forward to catch the Dragon Lord by his shoulders.

“Sniper!” Ana whips out her rifle and scans up and along the walls in the direction of the shot.

"Father!" Genji echoes. He grunts as he tears off the wings, then slips his arms underneath his father's shoulders to help Hanzo lower him to the ground. McCree hovers above them, his veins ice cold with dread as the Dragon Lord chokes and sputters.

"My-, my boys," he starts, gasping. "It's alright. It's alright. Don't cry, Hanzo."

"Father," Hanzo sobs.

"The gold! Can it not heal this?" Genji says.

The Dragon Lord shakes his head. "She's a good shot. A fine huntress. And the red stone makes no mistakes."

"Amélie," Ana says. "I see no sign of her.”

"Genji!" the Dragon Lord calls. "Take them. While they are still active.”

“What?” he says.

“The implants, and my staff. Even though I perish, they may still do good in the world. You were the one who showed me the compassion within me, so it must be you to decide. Mend the injuries I have caused."

"Father, we can't," Hanzo says. “It’s sacrilege.”

"Nonsense.” He coughs. “It’s simply never been done before. I am glad, my sons. Glad to die a true Shimada, with eyes awake. Please, honor your father's wish. Honor my memory by healing this world, and wherever you find suffering.

He wheezes, his golden eyes falling closed. The air in his lungs leaves his body, and does not return.

“Father!” Genji cries, burying his cheek against his blood-stained chest.

Hanzo rises. With venom, he shouts, “Amélie! I will not forgive you! Consider yourself a wanted woman in all of Hanamura’s domain!”

Suddenly, the grand doors of the chamber open. McCree reaches to his belt for a flashbang, while Hanzo and Ana aim their weapons. A handful of Black-clad Talon members rush in.  They halt, reeling when they see their slain Lord.  

Hanzo makes a move to shoot when one of them says “Wait!” Then, in a stunning motion, he falls to one knee and bows his head.  His comrades hastily mimic his motion. McCree releases the flashbang at his side.

“Where is Amélie!” Hanzo demands, crossing over and grabbing up the agent by the lapel.

The agent in Hanzo’s grasp sputters, "F-f-fires have broken out throughout the keep!  Please!"

"What!" Hanzo says.

"I can go manage it," McCree says.  When Hanzo questions him with a knit brow, McCree adds, "Ain’t my first rodeo, darlin'. You fellas stay with your pops."

"And I will track down our culprit," Ana says.

Hanzo throws back the Talon agent, then nods as he glances down to his father’s fallen body.

The agent bows his head to McCree. "Thank you, Master. Come with us. Quickly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next and probably last chapter will be something of an epilogue, with ~~possibly~~ probably something steamy. Didn't pick an M rating for nothing
> 
> As always, I can't thank enough those of you who gave feedback throughout this 'journey'!
> 
> Also, the song McCree sings is Doris Day's _Que Sera, Sera_


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK! The last bit is finally here! Sorry about the delay-- this went way beyond what I had outlined, enough to split into two chapters. I kept it all back until now, because I wanted to post it all at once. Thank you all for your patience!

The Widowmaker had been thorough. She set over two dozen ignition points throughout Shimada castle, and sabotaged the flow of what limited water there was to the fire suppression system. While Ana went in search of her, and Hanzo and Genji removed their father, McCree formed rescue and repair teams. Heavy columns of smoke poured from the keep’s upper windows by the time the castle servants were evacuated and water pressure returned to the sprinklers. By the time the flames fell under control, they consumed its grounds and gutted much of the keep. The most unfortunate casualty was the meticulously maintained courtyard, turned to heaps of black ash.

"Times like these when Hanamura could use a newspaper," McCree says. "Can't imagine the hubbub goin' down below on terra firma. Lookin’ up to the sky, seein’ Heaven on fire."

He says this as he glances down from a wide, open air window on the second floor of a noodle shop. Situated just outside the castle grounds, the location made for an adequate command post. The citizens of Heaven’s city mob the streets below and around the disaster area, but remain at a distance from the Talon guard forming the perimeter. It made his head spin that those formerly trying to kill him were now following his every order.

Genji sits on the floor beside a couch, atop which his father’s body rests in repose, with his broken wings and staff propped against a wall nearby. The staff still thrums with the strange energy of the Forge. Genji says, "They are patient, even during times of crisis. They trust they will have their closure and reassurance.”

“Eventually,” Hanzo adds. He turns from the window and approaches his father’s body. McCree follows. He removes his hat and bows his head. “Thank you, Jesse,” Hanzo says to him.

“I’m sorry,” McCree offers.

Hanzo closes his eyes and balls up his fists. A deep frown settles across his lips. “What for? I wanted him dead.”

McCree replaces his hat, saying, “That ain’t you blamin’ yourself, I hope.”

“There is no use for that. But the gold found him worthy of redemption, where until then, I could not.”

“So our colors did for us,” Genji says.

Hanzo says, “But I do not think I could have restrained myself as you did.” He glances to McCree. “Or even you. That is what I am reflecting on.”

“While you seek solace in the deep, do not forget to come up for air,” Genji says.

“Hn. You sound like a Shambali monk,” Hanzo tips his chin down at this, closing his eyes.

A knock at the door comes. Ana glides in, her rifle docked across her back. She removes her mask, propping it under her arm. She says, “No sign of her.”

A beat later, a rush of jets sounds just outside the window. Fareeha floats in through it, loose dust and flecks of soot whipping about until she sets down before them. Her rocket-powered wings tremble and shudder with disjointed, patchwork parts and cables. She removes her helmet and, in an uncanny resemblance, props it under her arm.

Ana says, “Anything?”

Fareeha shakes her head. “Negative.”

“She’s probably long gone,” McCree says.

Fareeha’s eyes pop when they fall upon the Dragon Lord’s body. “Is that…?”

Ana answers with a bow of her head. Fareeha mirrors her gesture in reverent silence as Hanzo mutters curses, tightening his fists.

Genji stands. “What shall we do, brother?”

“Why are you asking me?” Hanzo barks.

“You are the presumptive heir.”

Hanzo reels. “I was exiled!”

“There is no one else. We must reassure the people after what has happened.”

Hanzo grimaces and turns away, pacing.

“Hey now, we don’t got to worry about that right at this here juncture,” McCree says to Genji. “‘Sides, I’d say the next few decisions were left to you.”

Genji nods, standing. “You are right. I have already made my first, once it is safe to use our facilities.”

“We also need to patch up Master McCree,” Ana says, approaching McCree. She tilts her chin up as she examines him, taking him by the scruff of his chin and turning him to his left.

“Ain’t no big deal,” McCree says, though the dull throb in his right eye still lingers.

* * *

 

“Don’t much like being back here so soon,” McCree says.

Though what stood above ground was scorched and disfigured by the blaze, much of the castle below remained undamaged-- including the laboratories where Ana had come to his rescue. By sundown, he was back atop a cold gurney, but with decidedly friendlier company.

“But after you are restored, you may actually look fearsome,” Hanzo tells him. “Perhaps then you can discard that garish buckle.”

“Oh, all you need to do is ask,” McCree says with a waggle of his brow.

He intended it as a harmless joke, but Hanzo remains deadpan. “Sorry, can’t but help shootin’ this here mouth off,” McCree offers. _Around you_ , he leaves off.

But in a rush, Hanzo asks, “Will you stay with us a while longer?”

McCree blinks at him, then shrugs. “You bet. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Hanzo smiles. “Good. I was afraid I might have to bribe you.” McCree furrows his brow as Hanzo reaches under his lapel. He laughs when Hanzo extracts a crumpled cigarillo tin. Lucky Sevens.

“Where were they?” McCree asks, grinning.

With head bowed, Hanzo places the tin in McCree’s hand. “With my father’s effects.”

McCree’s smile fades as he swallows a lump that falls through his stomach. “Oh.”

“They are preparing his body.” He heaves a sigh before saying, “And extracting his implants. You will then accompany us to Shambali.”

“Why?”

Hanzo shakes his head. “You shall see. I do not like my brother’s idea, but I have decided to respect it.”

“Whatever you say.”

At that, Hanzo abruptly turns on his heel and leaves McCree to the cold silence of the lab. He rolls the tin in his hand, drifting away. He hardly reacts even when the technicians arrive, even when they retract his eyelid, even when they poke and prod. He returns to the present only when a technician shakes him, and tells him it’s over.

* * *

 

A single bead represents the remains of one golden implant. The size of a walnut, only a dull glimmer of golden light shining through its translucent, glassy shell distinguishes it as something out of the ordinary. Genji keeps it secure on his person while he, Hanzo, and McCree deliver the deceased to his final rest within Shambali’s network of catacombs.  Sconces cast soft light against the pale brick. Relief carvings of lions, hooved beasts, and dragons weave between the graves. A pair of omnic monks assist Hanzo and Genji place their father into his grave niche. McCree keeps his head bowed while prayers are said, votives are lit, and amphoras are placed. Piquant incense warms him, and for a time, dispels the stale, musty air.

After the funeral rites conclude, Genji asks, “Do you know what has become of Master Zenyatta?” at which the monks turn to one another.  Then, they beckon.

The monks lead them even further underground, beyond the graves, beyond the curved claws and glaring eyes of strange beasts. The uniform stone masonry transitions to gnarled cavernous rock, and the gentle sconces transition to harsh flood lamps. McCree cannot tell whether this section either an expansion under construction, or merely a forgotten.

They come to a stop at short staircase leading down into a lightless void. Extending their arms, lights on their wrists switch on. The Shimada brothers enter first, and McCree follows them down. He hears from Genji, “Watch your step.”

McCree blinks rapidly, then shuts his left eye.

“I’ll be,” he says. “Night vision, too?”

Hanzo replies, “Yes, to some degree.”

Everything is soaked in a dim red, but McCree can make out some type of cellar, where strewn pieces lie in heaps about their feet. Omnic pieces. McCree guesses it to be simply a storage room.

“Over here!” Genji calls, waving.

Tekhartha Zenyatta, crumpled and discarded like the heaps of scrap about them, slumps against a wall, with the fatal hole bored through his chest. McCree sees not even one stray bead of his rosary about the place, and figures the other monks who dumped him here they did not even bother to collect them. The thought only makes the scene more tragic and pitiable. McCree kneels with Hanzo to help prop the omnic up, while Genji holds the bead up to the burnt, frayed wound.

“How is this supposed to work?” Hanzo asks.

“Not sure,” Genji answers. When nothing happens, Genji holds the bead closer and bows his head. “Golden light. Please, restore our dear friend, and our humble teacher. Repair his body, and let the world benefit from his boundless wisdom once again,” he pleads.

The bead continues to shimmer, but otherwise remains inert.

“Maybe, um,” McCree starts, hesitating when the brothers give him their full attention.

“Here,” McCree says, holding out his upturned metal hand. After a moment of hesitation, Genji places the bead in his palm. Pressing with a finger, McCree promptly sticks it inside the wound.

“Do you even know what you are doing?” Hanzo hisses.

“Just whatever we ain’t tried before,” McCree replies. He extracts his finger, and waits.

And waits.

“This is not working, either,” Genji says, shaking his head. “Come on!”

“Shit,” McCree hisses, digging his finger back into the hole. Sweat breaks across his brow when he can’t get a hook around the orb. He pushes Zenyatta to tilt forward, and resists the urge to shake him like a piggy bank.  “Uh,” McCree starts.

“What is the matter? Remove it!” Hanzo barks.

“Can’t,” McCree confesses. “It’s stuck.”

“You fool!” 

“Ah!” McCree starts as a sudden shock tears through his metal forearm and up through to his left shoulder. It throbs as he rips his finger from Zenyatta, grunting in pain.

“What is-,” Hanzo starts, but falls silent when Zenyatta’s core thrums, and beams of light shoot from his wound.

“Master!” Genji says.

Then, as soon as the light comes, it disappears. “His injury,” Genji remarks.

Incredibly, the wound closes as though it were skin and muscle. Mesh and wires knit back together, and the blown out metal exterior folds back in, and seals shut.  “The Iris…” Zenyatta says, dreamy. The pattern of lights across his forehead flutter and blink.

McCree tenses when the heaps of scrap around them shift. Beads levitate from the mess, and fly to Zenyatta like iron to a magnet. They collapse together in orbit around his neck.

“Master,” Genji says, tearful.

Zenyatta touches his thrumming rosary.  He activates fully, and the darkness of the cellar recedes as it pulses with golden light. “Harmony. Compassion. I have seen visions, memories that are not my own. The iris of a dragon. Genji, what have you done?”

“I have given you gold dragonstone,” Genji answers. “And it has restored you.”

The monk next touches where his jagged wound once was. “How has this come to pass?”

“The gold awoke in our father, but it was not for long. With his last breath, he charged me with finding a proper use for the gold. The first I thought of was you, Master.”

Though his robotic face is static, McCree visualizes a scowl when Zenyatta says, “Why would you give this to an omnic?”

Genji bows his head. “I know that many would believe it a sacrilege to give this to an omnic.” He looks over to McCree. “Or to an Earth man, for that matter. But you are not just any omnic, and we are beyond custom. I no longer care anymore for tradition, anymore than the dragonstones do. They should go to those who are worthy.”

“You consider me worthy?”

“You understand the nature of the stones better than anyone. It is for your wisdom, Master, that I entrust it with you.”

“I am honored and humbled by the faith in your words,” Zenyatta says. The three men step back as he rises from the floor, levitating with legs tucked beneath him. The enchanted rosary revolves about his neck. “But though I am whole again thanks to the gold, I am not the same.” Suddenly, the gold light of the rosary shifts to a dark purple. “I did not ask for this gift. You gave me no choice.”

“Master?”

“You must excuse me. You called me back from death, but I still feel its touch. I have spent my existence in study of the dragonstones, but there is no history of an omnic possessing one. You consider me worthy, but I have much to contemplate.”

“I am sorry. I thought you would be pleased.”

Zenyatta asks, “What of the other? What of its twin?”

“I have asked for it to be integrated with my father’s staff.”

“An inspired choice. And who is worthy of that, as you believe I am?”

Hanzo cuts in. “A valid question, brother, especially since it seems to be infused with the Forge’s might. It may be prudent for it to remain in our care.”

Genji declares, “She is absolutely worthy. With Master McCree’s example, I am more sure than ever.”

Hanzo says, “‘She’? Is this the Earth woman who saved your life?”

Zenyatta says, “Another one from Earth?”

McCree grins. He says, “Dr. Ziegler. The Lord’s mercy herself. Hot damn, I can’t argue with that. She’s gonna flip her cap.”

“You will be returning to Earth, then,” Hanzo says, not so much a question as a statement.

“Yes. As soon as possible,” Genji says, glancing over to McCree.

McCree cannot meet Hanzo’s eyes, glowing blue in the dark. Instead, he places his hands to his hips and keeps his chin down. His pulse races as he says, “Guess I ought to think about moseyin’ on back myself. Here I almost forgot my own obligations.”

Hanzo grunts and says, “If we are finished, then, I will await you at the surface.” He storms past them, his shoulder brushing against McCree’s. The latter freezes, head down, except for chewing the inside of his cheek.

“He is grieving,” Genji says.

“Probably taking his father’s death harder than he thought he would. And he’s fixin’ to become Lord of Hanamura. I’d be testy, too,” McCree says.

“No. I mean, he is also grieving you,” Genji says.

“Me?”

“I believe Master Genji is saying that you are more dear to Hanzo than you may think, Master McCree,” Zenyatta observes. “And while I have seen dragonstone accomplish many miracles, a cure for heartbreak is not among them.”

_Heartbreak._ The word ignites him. “Will you excuse me?” McCree says.

He darts from the grim cavern and threads back through the rock, rising up and back through the catacombs as quickly as his legs can haul him. He halts fast when he does not find Hanzo at the surface, but rather at his father’s grave, with his head bowed.

“Hanzo,” McCree calls to him.

“Are you finished?” 

“No,” McCree says, approaching. “I’ll be back. I promised your old man I’d be your go-between. You’ll have to shoot me with them dragons before you’ll keep me away.”

Hanzo’s stern countenance does not waver as he replies, “If you break that promise, I will personally hunt you down on Earth. Then you can introduce me to what you barbarians call food and drink.”

McCree chuckles, but his chest hurts. He gulps down a heave, or maybe a sob as he stops before Hanzo, takes a long look to memorize every wrinkle, hair, and freckle on his face. His blue eyes seem to froth more than usual.

“Well, partner,” McCree says, extending his gloved hand. “It’s been one heck of a ride.”

Hanzo takes it. “ _Amigo._ ”

“ _Amigo_ ,” McCree repeats, chuckling. “Never would have expected things to turn out this way. I didn’t think I’d make friends with a damn space prince.”

“You are surprised.”

"A little bit, yeah. At first I thought I was just some amusing diversion for you. Then a science project once you found out about my eye."

Finally, Hanzo’s severe features lighten into a wry smirk. "You are still those things, as well as a fool."

"That may be, but you know I'm glad for it, Hanzo. That I was fool enough to come here to this planet.”

“I am glad for it as well. I might not have come to terms with myself. With my past. As though I could start fresh.”

“You can. Take it from someone who has,” McCree says. Satisfaction rises in his chest when Hanzo gives him a warm smile. The warmest perhaps he had seen since their time at the Drunken Dragon. His levity disappears when he feels a warm hand at his side. It's so gentle, and the way Hanzo looks at him makes his insides flip over, then explode with a cascade of emotion, and it all gushes out in a wild flood from McCree's lips. "If I ain’t met you, I wouldn't know what perfection is. The kind that stops a man in his tracks. I wouldn't have-,"

"Enough," Hanzo says, pulling away.

McCree reaches out, but stops, his throat running dry at the sudden distance, and the coldness rushing back in. Embarrassment chokes off the rest of his amorous thoughts.

Hanzo sighs. With his back turned, he says, "Your clumsy overtures of affection are flattering, but it is a fantasy."

The words dig in, and McCree scowls. "Why? 'Cause I'm Earth?" he spits out like fire.

"No. It will never be that," Hanzo turns back around. "I am presumed to be the next Dragon Lord, Jesse. Yet I am still so unsure of my own desires. And whether I deserve such devotion from the people, let alone from one man."

Somehow, it stings worse than rejection based on simple bigotry. He snaps back against it, saying, "That's too bad, 'cause I'm damn sure about it. There it is, no bullshit. It ain't all about what you deserve, Hanzo. It's about what I want to give."

Hanzo’s mouth falls open, but remains wordless as he leans back from the force of McCree's words.

“Now I’m done,” McCree declares with a sigh, departing with a turn on his heel. He’d done it, alright. Rolled another pair of snake eyes.

Hanzo calls for him again, but he does not pursue. McCree ascends from the catacombs back to the monastery proper, drawing his serape about him as the icy gusts from the mountain dampen his beard. He puffs on his cigarillo, looking out across the gleaming spires of Hanamura in the distance. He’s not sure how much time passes until Genji and Hanzo rejoin him at the surface. He exchanges a look with the latter, but neither he nor Genji question the heavy silence that prevails upon the transport back to Shimada castle.

* * *

 

Hanzo accepts the mantle of Dragon Lord, ruler of all of Hanamura and its domain. Attendants, former Talon, and administrators alike treated him as _de facto_ regardless, but formal communication soon goes out to the realm, Earth included.

McCree’s new status as emissary also makes it into the announcement, as well as mention of his dragon eye. The cat had to come out of the bag at some point, he figures, but he braces himself for the spotlight once he returns to Earth.

Genji arranges transport with his father’s modified staff, on which McCree decides to hitch a ride as well. McCree may not have forgotten his obligations to Overwatch, but they were at least comfortably abstract until the morning of departure. He gazes up as he follows Genji to the landing pad. There, a proper Hanamurian vessel awaits him this time, and a royal one at that, with pearl plating and splashes of gold about its wings and tail.

McCree tries not to drag his feet as he lags behind Genji. Where was the excitement, the relief of going home? Instead, all he sees in its pearl-white hull is a beacon for the world’s attention if he ever saw one, if not all the known universe. A pang of dread makes him inwardly cringe.

“What is the matter?” Genji asks him when McCree’s pace slows to a crawl.

McCree pulls away the cigarillo at his lip. “Where does a fella even begin? I’m fixin’ to write a doggone book, not a 500-word article. That’s if Boss doesn’t have my head for uh, ‘compromisin’ my objectivity’ he’d might say.”

“Maybe he will be persuaded to spare you when I come through on the rest of your advance,” Genji says, turning back to the transport and resuming his stride. “I would very much like to read your book.”

This time, McCree spurs himself to keep pace. He places the cigarillo back to his lip, whistling. “You mean that? Now that would be a sweet bit of puddin’ around a bitter pill.”

“Perhaps Overwatch will not regard us with as much suspicion once you are to explain,” Genji says. “And the people of Earth will subsequently do the same.”

“Well, can’t make any promises there. This flashy new eye of mine might spook a few folks, but with enough time I think I’ll be able to change some minds.” McCree pats the ruined tablet nestled within his pocket. “Hopefully some of my documentation survived.”

Genji says, “Let Overwatch know that on your authority, journalists will be welcome in Hanamura. Maybe even establish an operation here for the Hanamurian people.”

“That’s mighty generous,” McCree says. “And so long that don’t put a bee in your brother’s bonnet.”

“It is not enough to declare Earth as our sister world. We must also learn to act like it,” Genji says. “I regret that he could not see you off. He says he has not been feeling well since returning from the monastery.”

“Must have been the nip in the mountain air.”

Genji suddenly stops, whirling about to fix McCree with a hard stare. “You should know since our first meeting that I am no fool.”

McCree snorts. “Then out with it. You look like you got somethin’ to say.”

Genji breaks his gaze, glancing away. “I know my brother is resilient, but your absence will be felt.  Please be patient with my brother.”

“I plan to give 'im all the time in the world.  It’s better that way.”

“What do you mean, 'better'?”

McCree confesses, “Look, I’m still just a rotten kid, Genji. A nobody from Earth, and I thought I could try to woo the pants off a fuckin’ prince. A _king_. You know somethin’? He’s right. My fool head’s been up here in space too long."

“Master McCree!”

McCree rushes past. Genji calls his name again, but he cannot look back. He bounds up the stairs to the spacecraft and dives into its cabin. He doesn’t stop, not to think, not to feel until his back collides against the luxurious plush seating. He rips the cigarillo from his lips and crushes it out against his metal palm, then tips his hat down over his eyes. He feels like a surly young brat in how he avoids Genji when the latter joins him in the seat opposite.

He can feel Genji’s hard gaze, but the cyborg man does not disturb him. McCree is grateful as he finds himself and his tired bones yearning for proper rest, and puts up little fight when the shuddering departure of the spacecraft rocks him to sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Squee

A fledgling outpost on the Moon intercepts them first, welcoming them to Earth’s orbit before relaying their arrival to Earth. They also relay their intention to touch down in Switzerland.  As they approach the edge of Earth's atmosphere, Genji requests a patch through to Dr. Ziegler’s clinic.

News of a royal vessel in Earth’s orbit draws the attention McCree had anticipated, with throngs of onlookers gathered to intercept them as they touched down. Security forces keep them at a distance.  McCree scans the crowd, halting only when he finds a familiar look of open scorn.

The icy sarcasm of “Greece, huh?” is no surprise as he waves Jack through the security line.

“Nice to see you still in one piece, too, big man,” McCree answers. “Here for an exclusive?”

“Might have been best for you to stay up there,” Jack says, glancing to the sky.

“Now why would you say a thing like that?” McCree glances past him, then knits his brow. “Where’s Gabe?”

Jack huffs.  “He’s not coming.”

“Why in blazes not? After all the shit I went through for him.”

“The shit you went through, huh? What did you think would happen, after you decided to get cozy with Hanamurian princes?” Jack says, almost spitting his statement toward the splendid vessel.

Jack’s question sinks in like a bad stench. McCree chews on his cigarillo, grimacing and swearing under his breath. Jack scowls and turns away, shaking his head. The animosity he exudes cuts through McCree like daggers.

McCree grits his teeth and shouts after him, “So that’s it? You came all this way just to give me the axe?”

He can almost feel the cold steel of the imaginary axe in question looming over his neck, but he’s far too irritated to care. Jack stops, his back turned to him. He growls, “I don’t care if you’ve got dragons swimming around in your thick skull these days. You’re lucky I’m not laying you out right now.”

“Hold up. Ain’t you the one in charge here? You don’t get to blame me just because you couldn’t keep the reins on ‘im. Neither of us should be surprised if he up and quit.”

Jack chuckles darkly. He turns back around, stepping closer until he’s in McCree’s face, with a squint in his eye that could make even a dragon tremble. McCree holds his breath as Jack tells him, in his gravelly, battle-hardened baritone, “He quit alright. We all did, no thanks to you. I’m not shitcanning you because there’s nothing left to shitcan you from. We’re through.”

A flake of ash sprinkles down from McCree’s cigarillo as it tips from his lip, threatening to fall. “What you mean, ‘through’?”

Jack retreats from him, but only just. McCree turns when he hears footsteps, and sees Genji approach.

“Greetings,” Genji says with a bow of his chin.

“Genji, this is Jack Morrison, editor-in-chief of Overwatch,” McCree says, gesturing. “Jack, this is Genji, the late Dragon Lord’s younger son.”

“A privilege to meet you,” Genji says, stretching out his hand.

McCree’s stomach knots when Jack grunts, declining it. “I doubt you have graced our planet just to personally deliver back our prodigal son," Jack says.

The knot slackens as Genji appears unfazed, withdrawing his hand.  He replies, “Indeed, and I invite you, as well as the people gathered here to accompany me in delivering another gift.”

Their conversation pauses as they process up the slopes of the Swiss alps to the doctor’s clinic, and McCree struggles to keep his focus on the historic occasion unfolding as people clamor and crush themselves along the path, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Hanamurian prince and the alien object his aides haul with him. The good doctor greets their arrival just outside its doors. She is overcome by Genji’s arrival, no longer a secret to keep, as well as by her being the focal point of an international spectacle. Not a dry eye is to be found when, with little pomp and ceremony, Genji plucks the staff from its ushers, and presents her with it upon upturned hands.

“On behalf of the Shimada clan, the people of Hanamura, and the dragon spirits that guide us, it is our privilege to bestow upon you, Angela Ziegler, this favor not just to you, but to the people of Earth. While we began our relationship with animosity and mistrust, the surviving Shimada have come to admire deeply the spirit, brilliance, and tenacity of your people. Consider this a symbol of our renewed trust and friendship, and thus may you use it to mend and restore injury and affliction wherever you find it.”

“It is my humble privilege and honor to accept, Prince Genji,” Angela says, and riotous applause is sent up toward the heavens.

* * *

 

As the sun began to sink toward the horizon, Jesse McCree learns Overwatch was not merely through.  It was a blackened, burnt out husk, no longer sheltered, but entombed within the cliffs of Gibraltar. A ruin by the sea, with smoke and ash still curling out from the windows of the central facility.  Broken glass and stone glint in the sun, and cover seemingly every concrete path and roadway. McCree cannot contain his astonishment as their transport hovers in close for him to survey the damage alongside Jack.

“My God,” McCree says.

Jack crosses his arms next to him. While Genji stayed behind in Switzerland, Jack took McCree as a follow up, citing it was easier to show rather than tell. He says, “The moment he heard a one Jesse McCree had become Hanamura’s honorary liaison to the crown, he went quiet.”

“That’s never good.”

“Right. Then the next day, he went missing. Then on the third,” Jack closes his eyes, defeated.

“And this was his letter of resignation.”

“He believes you’ve betrayed us. That once you returned, there’d be no stopping Overwatch become a propaganda arm for Hanamurian interests.”

“Do you think that?”

“Honestly, I don’t know which one of you scares me the most. You and Hanamura, or him and whatever he’s up to now.”

“Well, that's something.  What are you going to do?”

“Hell if I know. Overwatch operations are obviously suspended until I can figure that out.”

McCree sighs. “Just when I thought I was bringin’ back nothin’ but good news. The Shimada even welcome an Overwatch station on Hanamura.”

“We’re not going to be in any position to consider that right now.”

“Genji Shimada is coming through on the rest of his advance, too.”

“And you haven’t thought about how that looks now that you know it’s coming from the Hanamurian crown?”

McCree mumbles a curse before saying, “Would just prove Gabe right.”

“Exactly. Therefore we cannot take even a dime of it, I don’t care how well you esteem these Shimada princes.”

“Well, one’s the top Dragon now. What if they could lend us a hand just this once? Let us repair help us get back in the saddle.”

Jack states resolutely, “Absolutely not. Overwatch will not exist if there is even a whiff of Hanamurian money, not if I have anything to say about it. And the brothers will not be in control of Hanamura forever. We cannot start a precedent that could be exploited in the future. What if their father had had such an influence?”

McCree falls silent, chomping on his cigarillo. His reason strains as he fails to come up with a strong counterpoint. “I s’pose you’re right. I’ll let Genji know.”

“Thank you. Now you see why I think you should just leave well enough alone.”

“Wait a minute there, big man. We’re not shootin' blanks just yet. The least I can do then is to start talkin’ to our partners and stakeholders. Drum up some new support.”

“Good luck. After this snafu, most of our investors won’t return my calls. Can’t say I blame them.”

“Well, could be they’re just waiting to speak with a hotshot like me.”

At that, Jack quirks a brow, his lip curving with consideration. “Could be.”

* * *

 

Before McCree realizes it, nearly two months pass him by. His schedule fills with functions and fundraisers, with his celebrity attracts a wealth of curiosity from politicians, businesspersons, and academics-- of which he hopes to transmute into actual wealth on behalf of his crippled Overwatch. Ever the strategist, Jack provided him with the reforged vision of Overwatch, though he remains skeptical that McCree could perform the legwork. _What could be easier,_ McCree had said to him. All he as to do is stand up before rooms of big shots and sell, sell, sell their vision-- over, and over, and _over_.

In truth, he knew it would be an uphill battle, but it was the kind of penance for his sins he sorely needed, even as the endless flights he takes around the globe take its toll on his aging body.

But there are places like Numbani, places that have embraced Hanamurian influence more readily than some. The towers of crystal and omnics walking freely about the populace grip him with pleasant reminders of Hanamura itself, and the man who ruled over it all.

He slogs through yet another presentation before a convention of big names at the Numbani Heritage Museum, who pretend to listen while they drink choice wine and wait him out. Once he finishes his talk and steps off the stage, he braces for the ensuing mob of questions.

_What do they even eat?_

_Are all Hanamurians really just omnics under their flesh?_

_Tell us about Lord Hanzo Shimada._

None of which have to do with Overwatch. He answers them graciously, rather than screaming like he wants. That Hanamurians are people, as flesh and blood and complex as anyone from Earth. That Hanzo was the most beguiling, astonishing Hanamurian of them all.

The day wanes toward sundown by the time the function wraps up. His chest aches, half-wishing he could escape again up into the night sky. McCree leans back against the smooth stone wall just outside a service door, puffing the cigarillo at his lip. He runs a finger under the tight collar of his dress shirt, then unbuttons the damn thing in irritation at his discomfort.

_Hanzo._ Imagining his face instantly takes the edge off of the long day, but the longing that replaces it makes him sigh.

Suddenly, the service door springs open. A man, broad and imposing, steps out. A black hood and a deathly white mask obscure his face, and a long black coat flows down his sides. McCree squints, struck by a vague familiarity.

“Red? Shit, am I dreamin’ again? Thought I passed your little tests.”

The figure chuckles darkly. “The name ain’t Freud, either, _pendejo._ ”

McCree blanches. His hand falls to the grip of Peacekeeper at his side. “Gabe?”

The hooded man's voice is deep, gruff, warbled.  “So did Jack turn you into his new dancing monkey? Or was this travelling circus your idea?”

McCree’s hand falls from his weapon. “Boss, I’m sorry. Christ, what happened to you?”

Reyes turns to him sharply. “Happened to me? What about you, traitor? If I had known you would betray us - your own people - I would have left you to die in the desert, and there’d be no obituary to remember you.” There’s no flame behind his words, only a cold, alarming steadiness.

Unperturbed, however, McCree pushes from the wall and faces him squarely. “Best be pullin’ my leg on that one, boss. I didn’t betray _shit_. Don’t you want to hear my side? It’s why you sent me up there in the first place. Now unless I’ve got potatoes in my ears, I heard us agree that I’d find out the truth. Well, I sure as hell did. And God have mercy, you were _right_. The Dragon Lord did have an invasion planned that would have had all of us over a barrel. And I not only found that out, I put stop to it.”

“And it’s for that reason _alone_ I’m not givin’ her the signal to blow your brains out right now.”

“Her?” McCree repeats, glancing around at the clutter of rooftops and balconies surrounding them.

“I don’t care about your side of the story. You’re a tainted source. You’ve made it clear that you no longer serve Earth’s interests. Lo and behold, I received my own blessing from the sky.  The unvarnished truth, and from a far less compromised eyewitness.”

“Bullshit.  I ain't tainted.”

“You know better than to lie to me. I thought with a hardened rebel like you, there was no way you could lose your objectivity. That you’d get us some useful information on the Shimada, and instead you _fell in love_ with one, or so she tells me. How does that make you a reliable source?”

McCree’s throat rolls as his temples flush, and not entirely with ire. “They’re not all bad. That’s the truth you sent me to find.”

Reyes shakes his head, silent as though contemplating his statement.  But he then says, "She thought you might say that."

“And I know who she is. And you’re preaching to me about Earth’s interests? Fuck you, Gabe. That’s what I should have said to you a _long_ time ago.”

“And I should have torn that piece of shit out of your skull.”

“You’re welcome to try.” McCree adds a withering glare, and gloats inwardly at the split-second of hesitation he receives.

“Do not push your luck. I’m _letting_ you live today. You’re not the only one who’s made some convenient allies in Hanamura’s domain, and with their own technology to bear. We are more than capable of slaying dragons.”

“Gabe, listen to me.”

“Reaper. Gabriel is dead.”

“You sure do look it. Alright then, _Reaper._ If you got any shred of respect left for me and our history, then listen to me this one last time. You don’t got to make things difficult like this anymore. Overwatch can and will be different this time. We don’t got to have Blackwatch, a light and a dark. We won’t be bought. I can make sure Shimada don’t stand in the way!” McCree points to his right eye. “Please!”

“They won’t, because _we_ will be the ones to make sure of that. Not you, not Jack, not Overwatch. We will be the ones to thwart the power of Hanamura and the Shimada, and by any means necessary. Not just on Earth, but everywhere those worms have sunk their claws.”

“If that’s the way it’s got to be, then so be it,” McCree growls. “Then let this be a courtesy: you threaten the Shimada, I’ll be there to stop you, and your band of jokers.”

“I look forward to it. Be seeing you, cowboy.”

Gabriel steps forward. Then, in a demonstration of his technology, he dematerializes into a fog of black ash. Instantly, he reappears upon a distant balcony, then ducks into the attached building, and out of view. McCree himself looks about at the towers of glass and neon signage, but a chill up his spine spurs him back into the shelter of the museum.

* * *

 

After the visit from the Reaper himself, it was all McCree can do to cancel the rest of his speeches that month, and book passage back to Hanamura.  It all weighs heavy as his transport sets down upon its soil.   

Though he is comforted by the sight of pink blossoms and white-capped mountains, the word _traitor_ pierces his thoughts for the infinite time. But the flow of guilt cannot extinguish the thrill of being on the Dragon Lord’s doorstep, as a second lift delivers him up to Heaven. He removes and crushes the butt of his cigarillo in his hand as an attendant approaches the yawning hatch of the transport.

The attendant greets him with a deep bow. “Master McCree?”

“That’s me.”

“This way. His Lordship is expecting you.”

It’s such a starkly different set of emotions than when he was lead up to the same very gates of Shimada castle two months ago. The entrance seems grander now, perhaps brighter even since its restoration from the fire-- as does the breathtaking mural of the four blazing dragons. He cannot help the drift of his attention to it as he removes his hat. The mural is not just bright, but brilliant now, with beams of the midday sun striking off of its fresh paint, tiles, and gold lacquer through an newly-added skylight.

Beneath the picture, however, stands another.  Just as striking, it is the image of figure facing away, surrounded by a bevy of human personal attendants in waiting. A flowing robe, as dark and blue as the abyss, drapes behind him in an long train, embroidered with lightning and waves. A single strip of gold ribbon adorns his jet black crop of hair, save for the gray whiskers at his temples. McCree smiles in recognition, and in that of the bow and quiver mounted aloft upon a grand mantelpiece on the far wall.

The attendant aside McCree backs away and takes their exit. He ventures a step forward, then drops to one knee.

“Jesse McCree, of Earth,” the robed man says.

“At your service, your Lordship.”

At that, Hanzo turns to him. He raises his hand, and the present attendants bow before also taking their leave. Hanzo waits for the sound of their footsteps to fade away completely before he speaks again.

“Please, rise,” he commands.

McCree does so, and replaces the his hat on his head. He makes no other move as Hanzo rakes his eyes over him.

“You look as shabby as ever,” Hanzo says, huffing at McCree’s BAMF-carved buckle. “How was your return?”

“Miserable.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Turns out your father’s killer has partnered up with my boss. Who in turn want to put a spoke in your wheel.”

Hanzo reels. “Amélie has been to Earth?”

“Seems so. Well, and former boss. He torched Overwatch, too.”

“Torched!”

“Yeah. Jack and I are rebuilding. It’ll take some time.”

Hanzo looks away, his gaze far off. “This is troubling news.  Very disturbing.”

McCree shrugs, grinning despite the sour mood. He resists the urge to reach out to Hanzo, unsure about the proper protocols anymore. Instead, he places his hands on his hips and distracts himself with the interior of the keep. He says, “But hell, I didn’t come here just to sweep in some dark clouds. The place looks nice. Real nice.”

Hanzo spins on his heel and says, “Come join me on the balcony.”

At that, he follows as Hanzo leads them west from the throne room, and up a short flight of stairs to the balcony in question, and one that wraps around the side of the castle. They walk until they come to a breathtaking view of the vast range of snowy mountains to the north, soaring as though their peaks were supports for wide open sky.

Hanzo brings them to a quaint, round tea table, where a kettle and two piping mugs rest. McCree sighs at the sight as he plops so much as sits in one of the matching chairs, and fights the urge to slug down the magical beverage. He instead brings the brim under his nose, where he inhales its scent. The vapors alone open his muscles and soothe his nerves, making him that much more keenly aware of his exhaustion. In combination with the view across Hanamura, his eyes sting with tears at the comfort of it all.

He takes a measured sip, letting the beverage work into his tight muscles and frayed nerves. He almost misses it when Hanzo asks, “And how is my brother?”

“Genji’s doin’ fine. That staff sure has a lot of people clamoring for Dr. Ziegler, as to be expected. Doubt he’ll be back until the hubbub dies down a bit. He’s loving the attention, I reckon.”

Hanzo cracks a short-lived smile, fading as he says, “I’m sure it was bittersweet to step away yourself.”

With a sigh of frustration, McCree confesses, “To tell you the God honest truth, I couldn’t wait to come back. Everyone on Earth might know my name, but I don’t got a whole lot of friends anymore.”

“I know that feeling well,” Hanzo remarks grimly.

“Maybe I am just a traitor to my people.”

“Hn,” Hanzo offers, taking a sip of his own drink. He then says, “A matter of perspective, perhaps.”

“What if that perspective is mine?”

“Then I’d argue that you are only a traitor if you do not follow your heart’s desire.”

“Hell if I know what that even is anymore.”

Hanzo nods, glancing down into his cup. “To be of two worlds. It is a difficult position.”

McCree takes another sip. He wants to quit thinking about it, so he asks, “Speaking of, how has life been with the whole ruling-the-known-universe thing?”

A smirk crosses Hanzo’s lip. “Dull.”

“Dull? That’s it?”

“Dreadfully so. I have done little more than bathe, eat, and make ceremonial appearances.”

McCree chuckles. And perhaps due to the tea, he laughs.

“What is so funny?”

“Here I’ve been running around like a headless chicken, and you’re the one bored to tears? If you had interviewed me two months ago, I’d wager we’d be havin’ the opposite conversation.”

Hanzo holds up his cup in a gesture of toast. “Yet the result is the same, fellow dragon. I have been no less impatient for your return as well.”

McCree pauses mid-sip, then sets his cup down. “You mean that?”

Hanzo looks away, toward the mountain.

“Hanzo?”

“During our time apart, I have considered much since our last discussion.”

Suddenly, and with a trembling hand, Hanzo puts down his cup and rises. McCree does the same. Hanzo turns to him, and the stormy blue mist rolls over him like a cool fog. Yet McCree doesn’t flinch when Hanzo lunges forward, grabbing him by the serape with both hands. Instead, he watches intently as Hanzo releases him to run his fingers through the scruff of his beard. “And the more I considered, the more I wanted what it is you wish to give me. Desperately so,” Hanzo tells him, his voice raspy. When Hanzo eyes his lips, and McCree closes his eyes.  He hopes beyond hope that they are of similar thought.

But when Hanzo leans forward, it's to run the scruff of his own chin against McCree's. While not unpleasant, it is strange enough to require setting down a bridge of communication.

"Kiss me already," McCree breathes, nuzzling into Hanzo's cheek.

Hanzo pulls back with a start. "Kissing," Hanzo says, as though mulling over the word itself. "That is for mates."

"No shit."

"Not for mere lovers. In our custom, it is not a trivial thing."

"What makes you think this is trivial for me? It ain't like I'm proposin’ to you, granted. Though it ain't out of the question if that's what I have to do." He can't prevent the rasp of desire from entering his voice as Hanzo's lips hover so close to his own. His hands snake around Hanzo's waist and stroke along his back. “You are so beautiful, Hanzo. I don’t give a damn if you’re a Lord, or a pauper. I’d worship you forever.”

Hanzo sucks in a breath, answering by running his teeth along McCree’s ear. He says hotly, “I desire it. Desire you,” Another jolt passes through McCree’s body, and straight to his cock. “I would devour you like the sea.”

McCree places his head against Hanzo’s, growling with restraint. “Then have mercy, and do it.”

But Hanzo rears back from him again. “Jesse, look at me.”

After steeling himself, McCree obeys, fighting his urge to taste those supple lips as Hanzo says, “I am the Lord of Hanamura now. To be the mate of a Dragon Lord is to enter the dynasty, and to contribute to it. Is that what you would want, and all of its duties and burdens?”

Sobered by the question, McCree blinks, then knits his brow. “What, you mean like producing an heir? I could see where that might be tricky…”

“Do not be ridiculous. Just as we have overcome the restraint of gravity, so to have we risen beyond the restraints of biology. My question is one of character, not of practicality.”

“In that case, is it what your Lordship wants? Would your people understand?”

Hanzo smooths the front of McCree’s serape and smirks. “Perhaps. Shimada have been known to take lovers from other worlds in our domain. But never mates. Since you have an awakened dragonstone, however, your spirit is equal to that of any Shimada. For that, I believe they will accept you.”

More tenderly, wistful even, Hanzo says, “And since I was a boy, I dreamed of a mate who desires me just as fiercely as I desire them.” Then, sharply, “Thus I will not have you as a mere lover. I will have you as a mate, or not at all. Who wishes to share this life with me, for it is not always dull, as you know quite well.”

McCree pulls back and smiles, a sublime ease taking hold. “Up here, down there. As I’m concerned, Heaven is wherever you are, sweetpea, and that’ll never lose its luster.”

At that, Hanzo surges forward, sealing their lips. McCree sighs, heady with his taste, and gathers him up in a tight embrace. Hanzo bids him open his lips with a swipe of his tongue, and McCree almost moans as he gleefully lets in Hanzo’s waves of desire roll over and batter against him like breakers against a cliffside.

“Then be my mate, Jesse,” Hanzo breathes, breaking away. He dips his head and sinks his teeth into McCree’s shoulder. McCree yelps, and shamelessly presses himself against Hanzo’s thigh. With his mind short and his sense of direction muddled, it crosses his mind that Hanzo may be the closest he gets to making love with the ocean itself.

Hanzo licks the indents he made, and says, “Because of you, I know a new depth to my being. A new hunger. Not one of sorrow, or redemption. But of delight,” He turns, running his hand up the back of McCree’s head, and through his sweaty locks. “And of _need._ ”

McCree groans in concordance as his hat tumbles from atop his head. _Traitor. Traitor, traitor, traitor_ his mind echoes, even as their lips collide once again. But where he expects shame, folly, and regret to drown him, there is only the taste, scent, and feel of his Heaven. Here, high among the mountain tops, the vile word loses all its meaning, its power fading like the dusk. The red dragon stirs in his veins, and savors his triumph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end...for now??
> 
> If you have come this far, I want to give you a sincere thank you for finishing my story. While I know it's an odd premise, and it's not perfect, I hope that you enjoyed it!
> 
> After so much writing and revising, my creative 'tank' is a bit depleted-- so while I hope to come back and plump up/improve on this fic, I may take a little writing vacation first to recharge. In the meantime I will LOVE to read an answer any feedback.
> 
> Never lose hope!


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